sometimes when i'm lonely
and there's no booze
the house

i go and listen to candy says
imagine that my penis
has shrivelled into some
genderless vestigial remain

my breasts are tender
i'm dying of cancer
in a tacky apartment on the lower east side

cause no one knows
that i'm better then marylin

and then i wake up
and realize my life isn't nearly that interesting
and my big dick returns

an anarchist doesnt think about these things

sometimes i piss myself
but mostly i fall down
and forget

at the grocery store
with everyone looking on
almost not paying the clerk

at home in the kitchen,
in the bathroom,in my bedroom
desire swooned and now so do i

at used bookstores
in the dark upstairs
between the racks of sweaty playboys

it used to be seizures
and now its something else

an anarchist doesnt think about these things

sometimes i piss myself

but mostly i fall down
and forget

hours,
conversations
grocery visits
phone calls

my mind goes
sometimes
it comes back

its not seizures
its something else

w/o a general
the soilders go
from boat to swamp

and the mud
over their boots
smells like shit

chaos and
worry
no real reason

an anarchist doesnt think about these things

no control

body not following brain
brain not leading the body

fall down
thrash
drool
sometimes i piss myself

most often
i don't remember

meals
or phone calls
or things written

on the floor,
and hours gone

somewhere
snuck out the front door
a tomcat's muddle

an anarchist doesnt think about these things

no control

body not following brain
brain not leading the body

fall down
thrash
drool
sometimes i piss myself

most often
i don't remember

meals
or phone calls
or things written

on the floor,
and hours gone

somewhere
snuck out the front door
a tomcat's muddle

lacunae

my body
is useless

scraping skin
and fat
towards no real concentration

and my mind
is going

i have is gaps

memories
fly away
do not come back

who commanded
it to leave

who gives the privates
generals orders

an anarchist doesn't think
of these things

that would be agnes, the sea 2003--its darker, less complete, more ambigous, harder to keep tranquil and still.

schadejal(sp) called it a masterpeice in this weeks nyer...i think i might agree.

on the tv last night, i said to my mom how amazing ray charles was, esp. his country albums from the mid 60s, which break my heart every time i hear them--its hard to describe, he is aware of the change in idiom that country (endured?) from hillbilly music and blues to something else entirely.

and he took that change, and he moved back, to the southern roots, and forward to the countrypolitian sound and sort of side ways and did it w. a gorgeous immediacey.

now he did other things (see his rendetion of georgia) but that work on the country albums...fuck are they amazing.

he died last night, and im not sure they are on compact disc, but find them and listen to them--NOW!

i wished that, if she needed to move into classics to find a mawkish and slightly misogynist story of women as victim, she would have chose madam bovary, cause everyone needs to read flaubert.

they dont need to read war and peace.

jessa crispin at bookslut thinks that she didnt chose the translator but chose the edition b/c it was the "prettiest"

depression is real, and i can run from it and prove it doesnt exist

this thing i have this lacuanae, does not become real unless it is named.

192 national anthems in midi format

sex work in the congo seems to be about absoulte surrival, and often hinges on rape.

mormon missonaries in new york

i cannot imagine much worse, really...the people in nyc invented the fuck you.

tarkosvsky polaroids

he being mark newport

he hand knits super hero costumes and hand beads other sex and violence ephemera...he is a genius.

stephen scripps studio

juicy fruit,
in the back of her mouth
near the molars
watching her almost not chew,
with peternatural ease.

and how she eases the mound,
like its alive
away from her mouth
towards her lips, covering them
with a clean white napkin , delicate femme
passing it from from lip to hand
to garbage can



cradles juicy fruit, betwixt the back
of her tongue and the molars crack
tends to its supple nature: a breeze
some elegant preternatural ease.
You can't tell she's chewing by her jaw,
and she doesn't look at you, w. that maw
because she's about to drive
easing the mound, like its alive
towards her lips, covering them
with a clean white napkin , delicate femme
passing it from from lip to hand
to garbage can












its about the juicy fruit, and how she
holds it closely, elegantly
between the molars and the jaws
and i watch her, its because
of her ease, and how you cannot
tell what is happening, how she is bought
she looks forward, about to drive
and how the mound is alive
as it moves towards the white
napkine that she places, a bite
away, that white mcdonalds wimple
my love her is so simple
mouth to hand
to garbage can

its all about how she consumes gum
see, she doesnt spit and she doesnt really chew
its just at the back of the throat, near the molars
and you can only see that she is chewing
by some barely percpitable ephemaral force

and when she is done, she takes her tounge
and nudges the used product to the tip of her mouth
covers her mouth with a wide white napkin and then
deposits it, easier then anything.

all i love about her concerns itself with the grace
of the gum chewing.


(product and consume are both wrong, hasnt been checked)