nice to meet you

with your back to the entrance
you didn't see me climb
into the booth behind you.
i slipped my tongue in your ear
and you turned, frightened.
though it took you a moment
you recognized me and we smiled;
you at me and i wanted to laugh
at the trick i played on your ear.
you stuck your finger in it
to get the wet out. you ruined it.
i wanted to do it again, to show you,
to teach you not to tamper.
but the waitress at the diner
interrupted us and asked me
if i wanted a menu and a drink.

the Word Verification contest

brian writes:

Here's a very Mike Topp poem idea.

We should start saving all the word verification from now on.

Get up a few dozen of them, or less.

Title the poem: Word Verification
or something better. It's probably a horrible idea-- :)

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

i don't think it's a horrible idea at all, not in the slightest. in fact brian and i have been collecting words (or randomly generated combinations of letters) from the word verification feature on blogger. here's what we've come up with:

fnixasv
iznziaxg
mnqoziio
hyrojl
pomty
mekytd
ixruax
hspzjf
svonn
vqdbueyi
huhue
umtojx
afadh
psyasrb
kouuopvx
lqbppgfe
auusqsl
ajbfnier
zzgjxz
kmsol
uaisr
lgrcruu
cffzzyc
ousabw
kqhnc
zasyrssb
epshzu
eupac klbpn
vadusmf
gsqnk


the object of the contest is to use these "words" in a poem (at least as many as you can!). then post your poem in the comments field of this post (as i have already) or post a link to your poem as it appears else where.

(note, this post crashed, exploded, and destroyed everying in it's wake, so i might have some words in my poem that i didn't put in this list, as i didn't save the original list and can't be arsed to float around in every place brian or i have posted comments in the last 2 weeks to find them all again. i knew you'd understand. if you want, feel free to pick out the nonesense words from my poem and use them.)

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

everyone is welcome and encouraged to participate. once there are enough poems the executive board of judges* will chose a favorite (or however many favorites they want). the poets of the selected favorites will be honored with a pinata in their likeness.**

*tba
**or something equally as exciting and wonderful.

pneumonia boy

i took him to the urgent care center
down the road from our house.
the old man there told him
that he has pneumonia and gave him
a thousand different pills to swallow
and an inhailer for his breathing.
he's under house-quarintine
for as many as five days. we got a note.
i called him in sick to work for the week.
now i am taking care of him.
i fed him soup and bread and ice tea.
he's not coughing, but i know he hurts.

((((monkee))))

this is your something katy update:

edits have been made and notes added to

husband and wife (revision)

and

the imaginary me

and

this is a shameless plug for po'et'ship. go there.

he's doing it again

husband and wife (revision)

he reads the back of a bag
of russet potato chips
just so i can listen
and get lost in his voice.

we kiss at the light
while the car is stopped
and the people behind
honk their horn at us.

i am not a robot i insist
as he presses one finger
into the small of my back:
this makes me move forward--
involuntarily.

i am learning to tolerate,
and in some ways appreciate,
stupidly spicy dishes
because he does all the cooking.

when we leave the cinema
after watching a scary film
he complains about his arm
hurting from when i held on
too tight.

the only way i'm able
to fall asleep in the car
is if i rest my head
on his shoulder or lap.

we call them "the kids";
my childhood teddy bear,
three little stuffed monkeys,
and the bear we rescued
from the side of the road.

my hand is fused to his chest
as we lay on our sides
dreaming about pancake diners
and organic spaceships.

when i get up in the morning
he rolls over onto my pillow
because, he says, it smells like me.


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

NOTES on 1/30/06
under construction syndrome
we have all voiced our opinions on the matter of what has happened to this poem in it's expansion. some of that subtlety, some of that innocents (or care or whatever you want to call it), seems to have vanished. i am tempted to keep only the last stanza at this point. however, the process of thinking up these moments, condensing them, molding them, is so much fun that i don't want to give up on the piece and settle on a three-line-long poem that could be much more. my idea for this poem now is for it to be presented as a collection, individual poems--untitled and unnumbered--and spanning over several pages so that each moment might have the gift of all that empty space. it's too long here. it's over-board on trite, and i know this. so this poem, you see, is in mid-drafting phases. i've decided to let some sections go (like the previous one about fingers and eyelids) and will continue to update this post with added sections as i deem fit. keep commenting, please, so that i can gage my progress through your eyes as well as through my own. you guys are fantastic, i wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for you. thank you all so much!

the hotel science series (some more)

hotel science XV

the correct pattern to follow
when folding a pool towel
is as follows:

1) fold in half "the long way"

2) fold in half again "the same way"

3) fold in thirds "the other way"

so that the pigmented stripe
is parallel to the length
of the towel when folded.

hotel science XVI

through mathematical tribulations
we have concluded that
it is more cost effective
to purchase 4 post cards for $1
than it is to buy 3 post cards
at 30 cents a piece.

hotel science XVII

condensation on glass windows
surrounding the indoor pool
will occur if:

a) the jacuzzi has been at full bubble
for 1.32 hours or longer.

b) there is equal to or greater than 32
breathing humans in the surrounding area
for 47 minutes or longer.

or

c) both instances a and b occur
simultaneously.


hotel science XVIII

the frequency of a squeaky wheel
on a housekeeping cart is

cosine3 over 3x
if x equals the wick of the carpet.*


hotel science XIX

8 test subjects were selected at random
and asked to operate a toaster
with their choice of bread or bagel.

2 of our subjects chose bread.
6 of our subjects chose bagel.
4 of our subjects could not
get their desired product to toast.
1 of our subjects cursed at the toaster.
1 of our subjects toasted 2 bagels at once.
2 of our subjects asked for assistance
in operating the toaster.

the results have been compiled
and we conclude that

a) more people prefer bagels than do toast

and

b) our toasters are too advanced
for the average hotel guest.

hotel science XX

hotel-room key-cards
have a consistent depleasion rate
of 9 percent.



*please note: i have not taken a maths course in... hold on let me count... 4 years; therefore, this is not in any way a real equation (that i know of) and is probably embarrassingly incoherent.

the imaginary me

i am a pencil wielding sci-fi princess
drawing maps of make-believe solar systems
wherein frank o'hara never died, never grew old,
and liked girls as much as boys.

or

i am a little girl with a poetry fetish;
all three of matthew rohrer's collections
hidden under my pillow for safe keeping
while i day-dream about being mina loy
and having dinner with louise zukofsky.

or

i am one half of a comfortable partnership,
non threatening, always smiling and always there.
i am pacing a hotel lobby, biting my lips
in deep thought; fueled by some alien energy,
something other than coffee.

or

i am a lower case k. i am a picture
of a doll with black hair, green eyes
and moods that are determined by my stomach.
i am in love with him, with life, with dreams,
with robots, with leonard cohen, and with you.


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

inspired by and dedicated to a.; this is what you get for calling me cute.

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

NOTES on 1/30/06
about i-am
i have considered, brian, everything noted in your comments and email. i completely agree with droping the i-am before fueled in the 3rd stanza and have edited some of the punctuation to accomidate the change there. as far as the rest of the i-am's are concerned (especially the ones placed mid-stanza) they are part of the cadance, i feel. i will continue to reread it to myself, and perhaps bring the matter to tcp, but for the mean time, this is the draft that's sticking. thank you for giving me your input; you are oh so helpful and encouraging, i can't thank you enough, really.

hotel science XII (amended)

hotel science XII

extensive observations have revealed
that within a 12-month period
the mean distance traversed
by a pool-side chair

is 67.52 miles.

noah eli gordon

noah is the man responsible for un-defining poetry for me. my first poetry class at umass was taught by noah, then a graduate ta. the class was called "experimental poetry" and wouldn't you know, i ended up there by accident! (right room, wrong day.)
it's noah's fault that i love bernadette mayer and that i have no idea how to even begin to go about trying to define poetry.
i was looking for some matthew rohrer poems online to show brian when i stumbled onto the site (as linked by rohrer's name) and saw noah's name on the list to the left.

so i thought i'd introduce everyone to him.

everyone, this is noah.
noah, this is everyone.


noah has lots of tattoos.

the hotel science series (cont.again)

hotel science X

housekeepers' complaints
are triggered primarily
by lack of sufficient gratuity.

hotel science XI

not all pillows are created equal.

hotel science XII

extensive observations have revealed
that the mean* distance
traversed by a pool-side chair
is 67.52 miles within a 12-month period.

hotel science XIII

if the total percent taxes of town and state
are less than the total percent discount applicable
then the guest saves money.

the guest saves money if and only if
the aforementioned guest
has the appropriate documents.

hotel science XIV

i am not sure if i am representing
the roman numerals correctly any more.




*also known to poets as the "average"


ps
i would like to declair my love for mathworld. can a poet have a favorite website dedicated to mathmatics? well, she does; even though most of it doesn't make any sense to her. *grin*

to do list

update: write draft of personal statement for grad application
how much had i been complaining about that to you, arch? hmmn?
*big smile*


make dentist appointment
call insurance company about car
wait for insurance company to call me back
make sure wibble doesn't die
put together drafts for po'et'ship
email poets.org about marie howe not being a listed poet on their site
bills, rent
email professor welburn
write draft of personal statement for grad application
dishes
make edits to "graces"

all in all not a bad day, espcially considering it's not even 3 yet.

we're falling apart

the world is falling apart... wibble seems to have a spot of ich (pronounced ick, how fitting). we've dealt with it before, but we have painful memories of the sudden loss of mr meow, wibble's spotted brother, to the nasty ich. sigh. tomorrow is going to be a very long day of staring at the fish tank.

box turtle

i am the turtle, boxed in my shell.

the hood of my fever, the breast of my armor,

the brazen of a heat-born rock at my feet;

protect from these--winter's evil spirits.

i dreamt

i dreamt

that we ate pancakes together
in a cafe where
they don't serve pancakes.

all the vitamin c in the world

won't stop the ache getting into your bones
won't stop the lights shining too brightly
won't stop the fatigue, the chills, the bitter taste


that's me whining. my jaw hurts.

and i can't call in sick for work because there's no one to call in to... grumble.

graces

slow dancing in the reception hall,
ignoring his family and newly wed cousin
he kissed me, his hands resting
awkwardly on my shoulders.
he asked me want to go?
and i said yes, so we left.

goose bumps ran the course of my back
by the time we arrived at the house.
we crept in through the porch door,
through the kitchen then up
to his childhood bedroom--painted blue
with a dinosaur bed spread and matching pillows.

i read a story he wrote in sixth grade
about a camel with no hump
while he woke up his little brother
to ask if he could borrow a condom.

when i woke i saw him asleep
in an old wooden chair,
his head propped up against a bookshelf

and two unused condoms lay
dutifully on the bed-side stand.



original:
slow dancing in the middle of the crowd;
in the middle of the reception hall
he kissed me, his hands resting
awkwardly on my shoulders.
he asked me "want to go?"
and i said "yes", and we left
the room in a single file line.

goose bumps ran the course of my back
by the time we arrived at the house;
the car had warmed up just enough.
we crept in through the porch door
and through the kitchen and up
to his childhood bedroom--painted blue
with a dinosaur bed spread and matching pillows.

i read a story he wrote in sixth grade
about a camel with no hump
while he woke up his little brother
to ask if he could borrow a condom.

when i woke i saw him asleep
on an ancient wooden chair,
his head propped up against a bookshelf

and two unused condoms lay
dutifully on the bed-side stand.

the hotel science series (cont.)

hotel science VI

an expert team of botanists
discovered today
that plastic plants are unaffected
by the change in seasons.

hotel science VII

1% of all guests
leave cell phone chargers behind.
there are no satisfactory hypotheses
to explain this strange behavior.

hotel science IIX

the trajectory of a wet pool towel,
when thrown into a basket,
is determined by the guests' desire
to throw it into a basket
or leave it on a chair for someone else
to throw into a basket.

hotel science IX

the height of 4 $1 bills
when stacked on top of one another
is greater than the height
of the slot on the snack machine
where $1 bills are typically accepted.

we learn, when placing 4 $1 bills
on top of one another
and then proceed to feed them
to the slot on the snack machine,
that this is indeed a fact.

on Marie Howe

here is the best eleven dollars and ninety five cents i have ever spent.

The Good Thief is a mere 52 pages of poetry, yet the most breath taking, stunning... i am in love with you marie howe.

there is a sore on my back
from where i lent into the counter;
reading your words doubled my weight
i could not stand, but listen.
my inner voice turned into something
under a trance and swaying to yours.

really, i hurt myself and i didn't feel it happening.

marie is a magnificent and powerful woman--my new role model. i want to grow up to be as much a poet as she.

i had the opportunity to read almost every poem out loud, in full range of my voice. i fear though, my own voice is lacking the nuance and grace of marie's intention. she's that good.

and i the poet

someone called me "the brightest star"
first thing this morning, first thing at 10:30

someone told me "i love you" and "that's good"
when i called him at the office where he works

someone offered me an apartment
a few doors down from his, so i'd be nearer

and throughout, the sun put on a stunning glow
and the bog lay still with the red leaves of winter
blanketing in the seeds of next fall's growth

and i the poet, starting sentences with and
am warm inside my house, with a goldfish as company.

everyday

everyday has a poem hidden inside it.
some days, i have trouble finding it.

i miss atticus

atticus, which now goes by the boring name amherst books, is the one place in amherst i miss the most. no, i never spent very much time there really, but it's where i attended some of my memorable readings. it's where i would go to find that collection of poems that no one else had. it's where they keep matthew rohrer's three collections IN STOCK!! it was the only place on the planet that sold kobo ade's the woman in the dunes. and the old fellows that ran the place seemed to know every book ever printed (which is awesome). i know that if i went in there today i would be able to find something by mina loy, anything. but, alas, atticus (i won't stop calling it that, by the way) is a 3 hour drive away from my home on cape cod. instead i am given this book-mall of mass-produced bribble brabble blahdom borders. i love borders for a lot of reasons (one being that i can't not love a book store, no matter how awful, it's a built in fault of my processor chip); they have really nice hot cocoa, an allegiance with jelly belly, and stupidly comfy sofas strewn all about. there are, too, though, reasons for which i loath the place. in comparison to the poetry section at wee little atticus, borders is severely lacking. atticus has got about 5 feet more shelf space of just poetry (never mind theory or poetics) than borders, and borders dedicates some of its small poetry space to some of the worst looking anthologies i've ever come across; meanwhile, not one copy of postmodern can be found. what i did find at borders tonight though (i had a spiffy gift card) was marie howe's the good thief and a collection of george oppen's poems (sadly though, there are only two poems from discrete series (fortunately not two of the ones i already have copies of), but i suppose the intro by robert creeley will make up for that)). i also picked up dave barry does japan and talk to the hand by lynne truss (who is brilliant and funny). now i just have to finish my first dr who novel so that i can crack some more binding (i don't, actually, crack the bindings of my books, it's just an expression). had i had a $50 gift card to atticus i would have come home with mina loy and some kawabata (can you believe that the only kawabata novel they had was snow country?!? the one i already have!!!). be grateful what you have right? *sigh*

the hotel science series

hotel science I

this morning we tested how many sips
it takes a girl
to drink a large mug of tea
with milk and too much sugar

the results have revealed
that the answer is fibonacci*.

hotel science II

the rate at which the volume of a lobby increases
is directly related to the number of guests
and indirectly related to the age of the guests.

we exclude the occasional pool party
from our findings.

hotel science III

the accidental spillage of milk and cheerios
is followed by crying 47.923% of the time.

hotel science IV

today we concluded that 6 out of every 7 adults
upon passing the front desk
will have something to say about the weather.

hotel science V

it takes exactly 138 seconds
for halogen lights above a pool
to reach full brightness.



* all you need to know about fibonacci can be found here.



_____________________________________

it's 8:32am, i'm at work. can you tell i'm bored?

dear salamander

the rain blanketed out the sun this morning,
and the stench of fresh brewed coffee
forced my stomach to churn and curdle.

i let my warm tea escape down the hollow drain,
and left myself without a warmth
for my fingers to wrap around.

i read all of your poems today.

and now i secretly hope that you'll call me
and read them all out loud to me;
but i know you don't know my number,
and i know you don't like phones
at least as much as i don't.

i can't cry at work, but i want to.
i want to stop reading, but i can't.

and i suddenly realize
that all the light in here isn't real.
and i'd forgotten
what it felt like to be hungry.

you force upon me some semblance
of a poetess--something worthy--
when, in truth, i am not really writing poetry anymore.
it's regurgitate fantasy ground to a pulpit
by my girlish will to keep secrets.

i encourage myself to squirm loose
from the embrace of a poet,
but my inner eye sees only
the red salamander.

it's still raining as i rub my temples
with two fingers of each hand
to focus my eyes on my hair,
my visual frame to the world.
i blur the picture for a briefest moment
before the phone rings

and it's not you.

mr chris from aelon says:

Your blog must be pretty popular because we always got a fair few visitors linking in from your blog =)


i won't tell chris that it's me who generates all that traffic by using my blog as a favorites list and checking nearly twice a day to see if ryan's written anything. regaurdless, he asked ryan why i'd taken down my button; i told ryan to tell chris that he could make me a button, and lo. there's a new aelon button!

we need to talk

anna andreyevna akhmatova i love you

i forgot, dear anna, how much i adore your poems. (thank you arch for reminding me about her by putting her collection up on that recommended list on your blog.)

below is a mere morsel of this woman's amazing craft (and the beautiful work of translator Lyn Coffin). truly inspirational and beautiful is the beloved anna akhmatova, and devastatingly under appreciated. even i forgot about her. my grandmother of poetry.


The three things he loved most in life
Were white peacocks, music at mass,
And tattered maps of America.
He didn't like kids who cried and he
Didin't like raspberry jam with tea
Or womanish hysteria.
...And I was, like it or not, his wife.

1910-1911



Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.

Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.

Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed,
That so many others were you.

1915



THE LAST TOAST

I drink to the house, already destroyed,
And my whole life, too awful to tell,
To the loneliness we together enjoyed,
I drink to you as well,
To the eyes with deadly cold imbued,
To the lips that betrayed me with a lie,
To the world for being cruel and rude,
To God who didn't save us, or try.

1934



THE WILLOW

And a decrepit bunch of trees.
Pushkin

I grew up where all was patterned and silent,
In the cool nursery of the age, itself young;
I didn't like human words, spoken or sung,
But i understood what the wind meant.
I liked burdock and nettles but the will tree,
The silver willow, I liked especially.
It lived gratefully with me till now
And with its weeping branches seemed
To make dreamlessness like something dreamed.
It's hard to believe I outlived it somehow.
There's a stump. And in alien tongues, other willows
_____will
Be saying whatever it is they say
Under our skies, under theirs. I'm completely still.
It's as if my brother had died today.

1940

grrr

i am so sick of news coverage on television. i don't even know where to begin. how about the guy who decides that it's okay to put an image of a mother and her two children walking across a CROSS WALK only to be run over and criticality injured by a reckless driver? never mind that, what about the guy who decides it's okay to show this at 8 o'clock in the morning? kids haven't even gone out to catch the bus yet and they're exposed to this!? this being a video clip worse than anything i've seen in a horror film; worse because it's REAL!! then the news reporter turns around in her cushy swivel chair to cover a stroy about how violent video games are effecting children. hello?

today, which is what spurred me to pull out the soap box, i saw a man steel some cash out of a convenient shop drawer only to be beaten to a pulp by the two men who worked at the shop. yeah, okay, so what katy? so this; the men are shown on the clip as running around the counter with wooden baseball bats.
i'm not going to get into an argument about who was or who wasn't in the right. my point is with the image itself. put a scene like that in a film (something an individual CHOOSES to be exposed to) and it gets an R rating; yet put it on the news at 10 in the morning and everyone's alright with it? where are the critics? where are the monitors? where are the mothers?

yeah, i watch plenty of horror films filled with rotting corpses, people being beat up, tortured, murdered; but, i also watch the making-of documentaries and commentaries and interviews included with all those films (when available on dvd, for example). so yes, i watch plenty of horror films, but i also reaffirm the fact that they are fake, make believe, NOT REAL. i also have the opportunity to choose when and where i watch these images. i do not, under any circumstances, want to be exposed to grotesque images while i'm at work. i do not want to be surprised by a mother and her children being run over when i've just started my day, it's horrific and unfair to the victims to exploit their trauma for a higher viewing figure. i'm absolutely disgusted and furious with the tv news networks. (one in particular, but i dare not mention it because i have a bias to begin with; don't i katie couric?)

all this violence, death and suffering, and these news reporters are content to turn around in their chair, pretend like it never happened, and cover a story about an auction for a 2-headed snake?!? you have got to be kidding me.

from now on, i swear, it's cartoon network or nothing, because at least the violence in cartoons is satirical enough that even children understand that it isn't real.

avatarific

uber thanks to the wonderfullest michelle and to the girl of many hair colours, lucy for my lovely new avatar (here and on the crit poet). i LOVE it!





also, mucho thanks to my boyo, for resizing the pics for me to actually be able to apply them (you're the bestest).

arigato ichiban no tomodachi!

and then i wrote this poem

i thought about throwing it out,
folded neatly and wrapped
in a bow of apathy.
but no. of course not.
this sentimental female,
a disfigurement of a poet.
a thing; something;
_____with a mild mind
_____two arms and too much.

feigning genius w/ drew

new feature folks... am going to link to someone else's blog of poetry when i can't think of anything to write myself. i just ran into drew on the crit poet forum and found my way to his blogspot where the first post (currently) is a lovely little series of poems about poetry. enjoy.

the many faces of poetry by andrew williams

without your sex

the only glow is from the monitor
as i carelessly pick at my toe nails,
my legs tangled in your office chair.
i am trying to write a poem about you.
trying to express, in mere words,
the masculine sensitivity i can smell
just before you lean in to kiss me.
a stubborn shiver leaves the word
on the precipice of my fingers.
i reach to write, abandoning my toes
when you swoop. the scent of your breath
and the soft pink of your lips take me
as you perch just below my left ear.
spin the chair around and the word is gone...
no others will taste you, your kiss;
but my poetry doesn't sell without your sex.

wrap

i ran the wrap around you;
the sheet with a knot.
i tore the sole of your shoe
by running on the ice
you forbid me from.
and it was me who called
at three o'clock sunday morning
just to test you, to see
if you'd answer and you did,
but you couldn't stay on.



================================

am, at the moment, focused on recovering myself out from the swamp of poems posted while i was away from the crit poet. thanks reid for the welcoming return (ever a beacon). as for my own poetry... i'm all about chit chat at the moment, aren't i? above is proof that i'm currently crap at the poetic form itself, though i've been endulging in poetic theory and grumblings about life along side the arch (which will soon be available on po'et'ship.

will attempt some more poetrite tonight, will post the results tomorrow, wish me luck...

p.s. i bought a car today, holy ef

lobSTAR

first thing this morning at work a regular guest (i work at a hotel) asked me if i like lobster. lo, the results...

we actually had to buy a new pot to cook her in (we decided it's a lady because she had all sorts of frilly bits). good for us that we live in the sort of place where the regular super market stocks lobster pots (we're talking a pot that makes a normal-sized pot look like a ladle) year round.



...of course, ryan's first reaction is try to fit the whole thing in his mouth.







i'm not being shy here, it's more that i didn't want to get given a steam bath by a posthomous shell fish.



...and the little boy in him surfaces for some antena wiggling.

the launch

the wonderful arch.memory and i have been corresponding for a little under a month now via email and have finally begun the pseudo-publication of our e-lationship as poets and compadres on blogger's
PO'ET'SHIP. the start may be slow, but once things pick up i'll endeavor to put up a fancy link.

the airplane poems

dear readership (all 3 of you),
here are the poems as they were written in my journal to and from england this past christmas. you may see them again in edited pieces, but for now, consider this poetry sushi -- little raw bits wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice...


#################################

i am the cat
covered in pools
of hot winter sun.
i am stretched
and disjointed
lying on your tax returns.
i am bending,
my tail caressing
the carpet.

i am like a cat
urging the magnified
sun through the window
bounced off the snow
to lick my exposed
fingers, face and belly.

i am alone in a hallway
reading William Hathaway
as you pass
and block the light.
we are Sleeping in Church
we are forgetting
by means of other Poets.

#################################

a different pen
and a different ache
specifically unfriendly
the battle for space



and there's nothing but black outside.

#################################

the smell of pretzles (oh how i loath even the word)
the unkind preasure
swells in my stomach
how many painful hours
left in this wretch of
a bird?
and why can't i write?
the ideas missing
with space, with room.

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how to read frank o'hara:
obey

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trundle forward, my whims,
on the coat of a handsome boy
or the plate of a fine dessert
find yourself bemused with green.

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on an airoplane with frank o'hara i dreamt
about the letter you'd never send and
coloured bottles of water from france.

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i did not drop the letter, and i don't feel
particularly
about it, one way or the other.

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now,
try to compose a poem.

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