real human beings

real human beings 

(to be sung) 

28 december 2015 

everybody's hurting 

and gets older 

every day 

every day 

(nearly,

recently)

I wake up 

I feel scared 

I remind myself 

not to 

love is stronger

:: stranger -- 

you're just 

like me ::

an amalgam 

of tennis elbows

and blow jobs,

life is - 

downs 'n ups 

cottage charm 

urban squalor 

attic thieves and 

daytime miracles 

for everybody to see 

for everybody to see 

some stuff

make seam bloom love

(14 dec 2015)

make sea bloom and love

spread. the air is quite

something in these environs.

every day i talk to somebody

new.

make seam. bloom. love, 

make steam! 

sell pipes, sell wares, 

arouse passion. make seam bloom

love, steam, 

that time I did work in Greenpoint 

after meeting that photographer. 

Lost in the neighborhood. Saw a 

girl. Caught some eyes. Didn't 

pursue. Was lost. 

<> 

tiny smog

<>

Editor's note: This story originally stated that Aducanumab "slows cognitive

function." It has been corrected to state that it "slows cognitive decline."

 <>

(15 dec 2015)

a mother on the ranch

nursing her wounded

pride

raises a gun in the air

thinks better of it

<> 

some-times, so

long ago, were

forgotten, as if

this pain weren't

burdensome -- and

so i have to leave

this place for an-

other, laying here...

i'm cold, you know!

cold and open, warm

at heart, dying, believing,

living, opening, washing,

alive, i want more, need

more love, more openness,

to be done. in a certain

way, under a certain

tree, acceptable and

accepted, with love,

for once, for all.

<>

(16 dec 2015)

Idea: A whole series of posters using art and wordplay

like

We put the BUTTE in BUTTErfly 

and a picture of a butterwing on an escarpment, or something 

<>

gary in the green grass

lewd, manic, nude, 

was taking photos of the shrubbery

i told him not to 

it was the first day of my life

it was the last day of my life 

the cranberries and the bogs 

borrowed from another exhibit 

tended to exult in this situation

the meaning of what i'm trying 

to say, which is that i'm in love

with the way you wash your clothes

in the blind alley, in a town that 

reminds me of Chicago, Chicago,

with your tight shirt and your calico

jeans and your snapback 

did I mentioned that I'm attractive? 

have I been in this part of town before? 

not sure, didn't know, couldn't bear

to mention. no. but also, yes. 

<> 

boilerplate gossip 

<> 

I started the day 

a million miles away 

but now 

I'm here. In an oven 

off the westside highway. 

I ate macaroni for lunch. 

What else do you want to know? 

I started the day 

a million miles away 

<>

asking your parent's permission;

lunchmeat of the past. if so, 

i'll have another please. 

Storm dream

Storm Dream
16 June 2015 (edited 13 July 2015) -- NYC

A dream of storms and emperors
of storks and silence,
a fury that advances no reason,
a shoal of sand instead of sharks

-- a wailing of mudthought, a
mincemeat of assaulted
conscience. And hourlong figure in the
waves, beckoning -- a glassy-eyed
doe feeding on chicory.

An ill-fed man wandering toward the
breadcellar, a tourist tossing a
coin into the wellspring
of eternal blessing.

These things are not our fathers,
mothers -- they are not our symbolism,
our fatigue, our interests. They
are, really, us -- our hearts and minds,
displayed in catacombs and webs of thoughts

they are really us.

Wendy's Forest Tail

Wendy would put on a tail in the forest. When she prepared to leave, she hid it under a rock. When she came back, she put it on.

Wendy's tail.

But only in the forest.

monday night blues

1.
oh stay the bonestopped rain -- oh wait,
oh weigh, these strands of gossamer pain --
like what, like thumping where, like hanging
when --

can you believe
the stupid few
the boring dilapidated crews of night
shuffling their moribund hues

you have to have pHd to understand
that a toxic substance is good for you

2
the dumb stilldon't always haven't
and here I

the dumbdinger sit
awaiting resolution

become majestic

unblood the unkempt ingot
with hands above the footspent cattycomb
the weirdcake, the handwren

open up her millerjar
spoon out the hoperain
become majestic

white whistle why

the white whistle
spelled past me --
a bone of continent --
a bore of contentment --
and examined the room.

the sound was
(where?)

this part of tomorrow

remembering how you lost a suit

Chicago

that which cleaves apart
and that which cleaves together.
that party that you
now don't remember.

your friend's brother's friend's
place. with some saucy blonde.

bet they don't have to worry
about rude Koreans without carpets
living above them.

the white whistle. but this wasn't
a race thing. just a phrase that came
to me in the park. the white wistful-
ness plague. the white-whale-pursuit-
problem.

"gotta find that girl and make her
mine," goes that refrain in the
eye of man. graduation speeches,

basketball games. bedtime.

'no reason to despair'

This book is called "no reason to 

despair." Look at the clouds, the 

persimmons in the corner of the 

yard. Who is this moloch casting 

eyes at faces? Who is this weath-

ered man sitting on the edge of the windowsill 

waiting for the baby to let go of her welt 

i've been born before

i shall be borne again

from here to where? 

here to wherever 

alacrity, amongst us, 

a peering boy crawling toward the rain. 

i don't have any hope for myself.

i've been in the dust too long. 

time to lick myself clean. there was a 

time when i wrote things that made it 

sound like there was a deep ferment 

inside of me and maybe there was. 

wrote about shit and puss. but there's 

a newness, a phantom, a miasma. 

i've attained a level of playing, a field

with weapons on it. grass and stuff, 

cured meats and grappling hooks. 

look out of every window in the gardenshed, 

do what you will with your money. i don't 

care where you park your raincoat. 

but i do care where 

we have today begun

insisting upon this 

task-at-hand. believe. 

what happens in the small 

yellow house by the train tracks

or what happens to the black man

walking past, 

toward me, toward the crook of this 

particular streambed, angled left 

and west, out of spoonbill territory and 

headed east, further out of the continent

where men rest in beds with sand 

in their mouths and bless, bless, bless 

themselves for these gifts, non-ordinary, 

given and granted ad hominem, forever. 

(Train from Chicago to Champaign, IL. 04 April 2015)

The roar at the end of the world

The roar at the end of the world 

is the road at the edge of the cliff

is the calming warmth of a mother 

packing her belongings up, and leaving. 

Yes, I've heard you do it before. That 

was many years ago when the road heaved

up from the lowlands to become highlands. 

The muck descended, the hard warm 

rock strata rose. There is no alarm,

no chalice. This is ancient land, ancient 

feelings. People without electronic means 

of communication. Analog aliens. Primates

with bones and throes and hands. Wringing? 

I'm crouching in the bush waiting for a clear

shot at an animal I'd like to eat. This is the 

way of our ancestors. The animal lives 

in the open, in the forest, eating fish, 

and it is part of life. To take other life. 

To make a living. To dart and to hide, to 

love and to beget kin. To be sexual. To 

love asunder, to fight and climb and 

endure sunburns. To know the plants 

and all of their charms. To help yourself 

to the (      ) embrace of the world.


[Champaign, IL. 06 April 2015]

insane tripe / painkillers

to speak is
more difficult
than putting words

on a screen
(where?)
nobody might anyway

see this what --
them heard words or
something goddam, who
cares? pass these please-
believing-sweeties, plz

remind us of our cold-
cut crops regard us crops,
rebreed us foodthings,
make us wayward, make us
hum again

with threads and threams
of memory like wheening
sky memorizing deens, these
krebbed believers doaning,
like Doaning Pipers feared
the wrath was snurg, the
coop was fledge, the corp-
oration done, the bankrupt
bridged. 'twas started. the

men in their suits were here,
where, i couldn't say why?
could i!? the men were here
in gray charcoal suits like
ooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooor was it Tomlinson,

nee Bakersfield, with his
thumb up his ass and his
Megan (his wiferight?yeah
youknow) or Colleen in the
background like Grimace,
this motion verbing and

I don't believe this
means what you
think it does

- - -

meeting, wow ; unthought regrets ; what is past

in the edith
i met a woman
named forest

and like wow
her face smiled   or   the room

TURNed,  ;  in some fashion  ;

"things" weren't        as they say
t h e  s a m e  a          n y m o re

whichisn't tosay i'vebeen waitin
g foranother chanceto makeright
whatwas wrongand iknow aswel
l asyou i'vedone thingsthat didn't

HOLD  UP  in  the  light of day
Q  U  I  T  E as well as i'd hoped

(there is a mouse in the house.
be it cute--no matter--the rodent
shall die.                           ahem)

which isto say
that she smiled
and everything changed

Ciñamon

Return of the Mexican
fresh out of mescaline
booze from the mezzanine
don't mess with him

Dream of the pauper
Proud papa to Cyndi Lauper
dropped her as a baby
but she was (more than) fine

For what purpose is this nonsense?
Is nonsense ever for a purpose (yes).

the most compelling tribes

the most compelling tribes 

are the ones we haven't found 

yet, can only guess about, or

so it seems. i mean i think i've

got enough to figure out, it 

seems i already know a way 

around it, i know garden paths

etc. to walk down. round about, 

cold winds, down the alley in 

the place you wish you grew 

up. strange winds, strange thoughts

about what could have been, 

too much to consider, too unsafe 

a mental habit. mental habitations, 

rental computers, barking dogs

in the alley my dad grew up 

next to. we drove them in our 

memories, we drove them as lovers

collect each other's belongings 

to give them back. meaning we 

haven't. they're still here. 

recently

like a man in bed with

maybe a cold speaks up 

when the thermostat falters, 

eventually, he'll have to

do something about it. 

i know, i am that man, just

laying here, just breathing 

in the snow, the golden glow

of every piece 

of every known love. i went

to her house when I was ten

or so. I didn't really ever see

her again. I didn't know that 

love was something more than

feelings. she called me. in 

the morning. she wanted to 

talk. i was 

in the basement. nine years old. 

i held back the urge to 

ask her why, like, 

"is this about an assignment?"

but even then 

i was savvy enough to reign 

it in. still full of wonder that she

called in the morning, though. 

"hey doug," she said. me: "who?"
she called in the morning 

in her yellow sweater and her

lacy black 

don't-tell-me-what    I have, 

uh, already discovered. this isn't

a graveyard, or no seminar. 

i've caved in less than ever 

recently; a new era begins. 

Heated Swimming Ways

There are ways to do this
thing where we move through
the water with our bodies

less coldly. Modern tech,
modern institutions surround
us like gauzy fakeclouds

that you can ignore but
not really avoid, nor outrun,
for their shadows are every-

where. "That's okay, that's
alright," we repeat, society's
ubiquitous refrain & salve

for any pain, we are still
here, we still have eyes to
see the light, obscured though

it may be, we say. "Everything
will be okay." Sure, but that's
like agreeing upon staring

straight ahead when terrible
things are happening in
the periphery. "That's just

life, man." And, to be fair, this
pool--in the middle of a damn-
ingly cold winter--feels great.

(New York, 08 February 2015)

super b0wl sunday poems #1 and #2

1.
At the intersection
of is this happening?
and isn't it
I have a reason, I think,
for stopping---
this or that wind
has eloped again
woken up for the moment
sent its regards
asked for affection
found it wanting,
traveled,
studied Scops owls, gone to Lombok,
done that whole "indonesia" thing
found women to whom to make love
with / this / and / or
had an idea
wrote it down
burned the paper
scattered it seaside
took a pill
woke up,
did it again.

2.
And like the buried animal's pigments
are secreted no more--a white mole rat,
a colorless worm, a grub to whom hue doesn't exist
--the whiteness befalls us all,
gets in our teeth, in our affect,
drains into the cracks in our earthenware
seeps into our transmissions
leaves us stained and breathless,
with reason, for once, to stand there
silently thanking the spirits
for what has us befallen.

my life's work

it's cold
and a man must sleep
but first
but pause, but because
as these limbs carry me
they acknowledge their pact
with the ground with the round
world green giving,
world i've given giving, in it,
living--

this space this place perfect
like a hand with a red dirt \wish
with red with blue yarnward
thoughts of barns laymen
& cold, now warm blankets
i'm old but young living
and young but old given,
in years I'll become (in it),
until then enjoy written
words, my life's working
words, my life's work, fin.

Tam dam spat

in the town of Tam
preachers speak of a scam
they don't like the dam
but the preacher be damned!

frankly, i don't give a dam
said the dam-man, goddam
he don't have a pencil, he
don't have a plan, but his
man do -- does -- to stop-up
and ran -- meaning run -- to
get the fuck out of Tam.