i found a bunch of two year old poems, posted elsewhere, so i figured i'd add them here to consolidate.

cutups from august, 05:

i can smell it coming again
perched in the middle of a former
soviet airfield

wrapped-up corpses
swollen up out of
the frozen ground
etched against
grey-on-grey winter

a faint loamy whiff of
the gusts of misery
that lap at our coats
...

i blame my solitude on
sharpened sticks and
grave misunderstandings

a maddeningly unbound lover
engraved on my taste buds

the vivid combustion of spirit
kept at a consoling distance

we remain unexploded

...

we give up the romantic compass
predisposed to idealized reclusiveness
smooth and creatureless

coyotes roam
the spindly pine and birch forest
here in the snow

the wisdom of my desire
like beach-washed glass

...

cold war nostalgia
handed around
like a curious artifact
from the window of
an old soviet apartment
where women take
their clothes off

loneliness and
erotic cigarette smoking
the proletarian option

...

rocket-propelled grenade
accusatory pointing finger
a week of the silent treatment

a lonely niche in lieu of
being cured and made whole

...

the uncertainties of hurricane
suck our warm pretentions
powerlines cutting the sky

a tree turns into
a circuit board

someone was in mourning
breathing from a darkened crib
like the sound of rain

translations from august, 05:

those we would like to be must be grasped;
the fact that the focus is not adjusted
does not have to be regretted in writing

i gain a hundred other things:
the money which is not money,
the sound which is me
the something else; punishment

tension and destruction and arrival,
passing, passing, passing
the money in the bank will be
the money the government gets.

...

break into a run,
life in question

roll up your eyes,
reject growing upward
and obtaining real work

deathly frightened, funereal

work the work,
the time of ripening,
upward

...

i do not feel sad,
i do not feel angry.

a good life and
set of experiments,
a series of many experiences
in the validity of things.
the happy first.

many years between
the feelings you feel;
you become tired.
you feel sad, angry, tired;
you do not feel.

i must feel;
i used my brain
for the second time.

...

the poorest sleep,
cooking under my covers.
pain from my ear to my elbow;
the howling began,
the tomcat in me;
agony in my arm

night awoke absolutely,
immediately frozen.

...

the ceremony is
important to me,
the half part
of the hour of reason
clearly placed, but still
I do not have funds.
not drunks either,
jerks or scoundrels.
i want to be bitter,
a half hour attachment.
the will consuming,
boiling.
the power of explosion
the only good friend.
drunks, convulsions,
robbers.
silence.
--

a long one from august, 05:

i will send you a
once-upon-a-time
verified thing.
or write a new edition.
or talk, little by little.

you do not worry about
anything that is not like ohio,
like something positive.
ways of speaking in context,
too much of a lost chance.

silence is thin;
it hangs together but is agony.
hatred for everyone.
i understand those same
misunderstandings.

being loved, a little kindness;
the fight going out of everyone.

we kind of move with the islands,
flowers and a bottle of wine.
strangeness.

with each other, the open sea,
visits and permits. we thought that
we would like to be good,
longingly looking at photographs:
a small cabin and a small boat.

you possess the place
where my work goes.
today i am a child; today
i am old and have given up
and moved.

i swim through the forest,
knowing my brain will become
abandoned.
a kind of convulsion escapes.

my family, my feelings.
non-human feelings,
selfishness, foolishness.
monopolized ones and
monopolized things,
misery made to rejoice.

i want a north pole opposition,
i want to become complicated.
my general sense is that
it will be unkind and inconvenient.

inside all the unhappiness,
there is the possibility of
different meanings,
entering above me.

when meeting accidentally,
we recover in small quantities.
last night was the conclusion,
an insult in circumference.
--

september, 05:

last night,
the night of
recombination,
where that which is good
is incomprehensible.

i am extreme,
not to be trusted,
especially concerning
love

an average evil:
justly, it increases
terrible things
-----

everyone is attached.
that directly is weak.
the glories of
feeling that way,
the behavior of
ridiculousness.

there was fear, rescue and
the joy of describing
external wounds.
fear and unlimited
pleasure.

worry was not helped
but reversed,
in order never to
designate the child
as the air.
-----

the scream
i waited for is done.
i know that he is happy
by being safely removed.
it has come
to its conclusion,
written in a letter
from someone
i do not need,
the cruel son
that still has lived.
-----

he has supported me well
from the house,
has lived because
it is hard.

he has left his family
for the present.

there is no friend
at the house.

the long distance telephone:
sad how you feel it can see.

we want the end of things.
-----

it is not possible really
to take responsibility.
she is the sickness
within herself,
the thing that is
destroyed.

her defect is
her method of being.
the margin of denial,
locking herself into
mistakes.

erosion, abandon.
a cancer, a disease.
a kind of sanity in suicide.

a crime without limits,
knowing the things
that are lost.
-----

she is guilty,
but functioning.
her life, everything,
many years between
the things she made
miserable.

force, just fear
and force.

my brother her only
reason to live.
she grasps him hard.

everyone she leaves escapes,
with permission to be happy.
-----

her family keeps their distance,
her friends are destroyed.
regrettable things in her grip.
she shines with reference to her name.

exasperation,
quiet allowance
the eye looking
at what it presumes
is large.
-----

i pass the time one sunday
with fair supervisory things,
looking at the exposition.
i shout, remember
what exactly was said.
i understand all fearful things.

it is legitimate,
in order to work.
i will cry out, run far.
there is the possibility of beauty
(it is irresolute, a fraud)
-----

i am the ruin
which spans several weeks.
i am the screaming baby.
i am moved by semi-frenzy.

i am delightful,
i who have acted
by really being moved

control is maintained,
my center hurting
without reason,
without limit.

this methodological
desire, sunlight.

this time spent finding out
who you think you are.

you extract things from my system.
-----

the things you are moved by
are uncertainly caught,
and i am the fair thing that waits.
the reasons are known to me.
famous, foolish.
the bit where you are published
threatens me. poetry,
the trash which is permitted.
a poem chosen from
twenty five other things.
--

the story of my life
waits for him.
he enters my work
uninvited.

i am the necessity
to escape.

the expressions,
the messages
i abandon;
but he thought of that.

someone from town going away.

i am malice, confused
exactly with not thinking,
according to his glossy purpose.
-----

after she goes
away from town,
spite.

even in all that,
explanations
enter into it.
recognized.

as for my first hypothesis:
being. being the thing
i do not know.

some things can be intermediate.
-----

it has become worse.
the simple, sane method
is not felt.
the agony is splendid.
love simultaneously,
using a year of my life.

and over there,
time between us.
wierdness is measured.

i do not feel,
you thought
for the second time.

there is a friend in me,
a good person.

i dreamed my heart
was lost.

the lunatic thing,
this enormous silence
between us.

he is not after my stupidity.
-----

he avoids me with bad methods.
we change entirely, we damage
feelings and friendships.
make ruinous what
we have expressed.

we do not possess thought
no matter what.

the fact is that for me,
the boy came, left and
was desired.
-----

to go out, to meet again,
to peel away what
he will wear tomorrow.
he is exhausted and
the night is less.

nine things, the comfort
circumference.

(the circle of head
and hands)
-----

we slept, possessed
incomprehensible things.

we drank wine under the stairs.
we talked, sank into reminiscence.

the sweetness where we were,
the logs facing the sea
expressing our travelling nerves.
courage causing movement.
-----

i cannot see the stairway.
i put my head in my hands.
our heads and hands together,
our feet interwound.

the eye has awakened,
the skin fighting with
the fact that i breathe,
awake until we leave.

our heads,
our feet,
our hands
bound.
-----

the surfaces moving my hair,
moving where i was.
quiet, half asleep.
restricted, excluding
the things you speak of,
wrapped around each other
heavyheartedly.
--

basic principles;
a person who is brainwashed.
going to india with a delegation.
television movies,
reincarnation.

a shallow religion
under any circumstances.

those who should be surprised
rather express a return to god,
god and god.

we are with
the complete conviction that
excess is the road to right,
you said.
you did not hear entirely.

holiness.

we could have simply
smiled and nodded.

television worship,
remaking a shallow religion.
india falling from two religions:
the thin things.
brainwashed to the core.
horrible.

god god and god

a printed style of writing
reports our answers back:
belief is sufficient.

a new grudge and
the christianity scare

we did damage to feelings,
we threatened and
were simple and smiled.
we were virtue.
--

the story is already written.
a twenty minute plot.
over there, a story
i do not know;
a boy walks to a bridge,
jumps, thinks of everything.
questionable matter; talk.
in the end nothing happens.
it is clearly two thousand
words.
--

i scrutinize the sea
of level gray,
the paint attached
to the body
from the window.

i sit down in my kitchen.
my stomach is angry.

gray and white,
a small-numbered
stripe of blue
where the sky passes
through the glass window.

my head is polluted,
sluggish. i possess
dissatisfaction. the ice
has dissolved.
---

i am now a structure
that blows the whistle,
makes the noises of
howling dogs.

i did not designate
the whistle as the air.

i am not sexy.
i am not the woman
whose hard clothing is
beautiful. seems like a
preschool child is in me.

the mines are quiet.

i became transparent,
somewhere along
the line where lovely
becomes drunk.
--

october, 05. these ones are just cutups of amanda's blog:

coming home
7:30pm.
construction
beautification
major things

traffic circles
suck to the right.

this particular night,
work going on
traffic control person,
police lights flashing,
a bridge in the way

incoherent arm signals
changed the sign to slow

ladies and gentlemen,
the problem was
traffic circles

he showed her
with his blinkers.
a couple of vehicles
flapped her arms about,
directed us the wrong way,
interfering with
a construction
and accident scene.

the traffic control person
is the boss.

accident?
police lights flashing
under the bridge;
something major going on.
two police officers,
an idiot and
people hollering.
confrontation.
all geared up;
uneasy all the way home,
unsettled.

i would have
turned my blinkers on
at the idiot woman.
--

wednesday
i started to bleed

the hospital:
kicking the machines
trying to get her heart beat.
the most violent kicks.

sitting, waiting
for the hospital to call,
i chipped a tooth
on a sandwich.

what in the world in happening?
my body is falling apart.
scrambling to pick-up the pieces;
too much damage.

the hurricane horror
all i want to do is cry about myself.
perspective on the big picture.
---

(i will tell more
when I get the pictures together)

the whole shopping experience ruined.
a deer ran out of the woods.
the deer jumped over the divider.
the deer hit the car mid-jump.

i turned my head away
deer mush
the noise so loud
i turned back around.
i saw the deer jump a fence.
---

i don’t want to do everything too early;
a newborn in an empty nursery.
my books tell me this.
i want an exact week,
the ideal time, another worry.
i have everything.
i spend even more money on things.
why aren’t things more clear?

i have few things.
i am lucky enough
(again);
things seem so much clearer.

i just let things happen.
i go with the flow.
(this freakish nature)

my books have the answers.
a book has all
the exact answers.
statistics,
worse case scenarios.
straight out basic answers.
--

baby can come
when ever she wants
(late november, sunday)
i will send pictures.
i will do it soon.
the house, the room
is beautiful.
perfect baby girl.
perfect room.
i am so excited now.
yesterday we hit a milestone.
the baby is positioned.
some times big babies are born.
nothing fantastic happens.

he thinks that he is old already.
i knew from the beginning
that he would be.

bunnies are for the closet,
bears for the dresser.
---


a list of things to get done.
promises to everyone.
a lot of clutter in there.

a bunch of things,
a bunch of things.

i hung on to a sign,
promised myself a baby.
i feel so much cleaner now.
our secret ugly place is tidied.

every house has a secret ugly place.
vacuum, tools, old lady cart;
kitchen things, cupboards and shelves.
---


all that waiting,
all the testing.
i need to figure out
how far back i want to go

(did I ever tell you how much
i love seeing people
open their presents
but loathe buying them?)

time and money set aside
for surprises.
a huge money blowing fiasco
(the driving force)
--

november, 05:

now it is so far.
my inside countdown
expresses itself by
regular dreams.
everything has relaxed .

(always the same!)

i can concentrate on
my planning, a confusion
with money and insurance,
the 8.8th war.

finally, consecration.

we see ourselves,
our exclusive desires.
i want to perpetuate myself
in the entire next year.
---


let shit turn out
with the map folded.
i want only to say that
everything is folded.
straight, perfectly.
too expensive ,
too expensive.
eaten.
---


we arrived.
we must still regulate so much:
credit, an account and
a social security number.
everything was a little narrow and
the hostess was completely beautiful.
around nine, dead in the bed; tilted.
jet lag is not yet complete.
---


we have one night in a 10 dollar hotel
(dirty…) expensive, unclear,
and to me also honest.
for the moment i know simply
only the fact that he will find me here too.
here, no dwelling sounds completely beautiful.

before the gallery sat a man
who omitted himself loudly, his neck
over the destruction apparatus.

the capitalistic world a genuine monologue;
it is absolute opinion that one does not need money.
a bicycle, a camera, with which he filmed himself
a video recorder and television, with which he regards the video
afterwards..... oh, i became so glad.

i am still absolutely in a holiday mood;
the weather is more than inviting to undress.

announce me, completely, love.
--

it is 7 o'clock and
i am completely awake.
i lie to the fact that you
do wrong to me. you have
located yourself in my blood
and my toes. you run and
have no calm minute, poor
in the evening, delicate.
i am nevertheless somehow glad.
empty, empty. here each day is
like the other one.

trains, cowboys, country music,
and in the evenings, scotch. he
watches moths, says
"Hitler wasn't good, but....
you know... he wasn't bad either.
how can you tell? you didn't even
meet him, did you?"

empty phrases, acres of leaves.
he talks so quietly that I must inquire
each time three times.
there are cross word mysteries
only in english. there is no other
language with so many words.

my lunch (such fast food
cheap taco things), ice and
bubble tea.
i had an apropos occupation,
a completely new feeling.
they beautifully paint themselves,
then one writes a novel.
i must believe now,
otherwise i am somehow sad.
---


a complete list, with objects
of interest to enumerate.
plan, plan, plan, (in detail)
breakfast, plans....oh it is
already 3 o'clock. the afternoons
and the museums.
it rains against the house.
bears on the island,
bears on the island.
the cougar is still worse
(a cat, a puma... a german
word for it: mr. cutter).

i offered my shed,
a tavern perhaps.

i went to a party,
80's style (black, white),
a dancefloor in the kitchen.
a nebula machine, a smoke detector.
i was allowed to balance on a bar stool
with a directory as document.

we threw our peanut shells on the soil
and on banks. we sat on jute bags.
posters, scribblings and chips,
photos made very merrily.

thus here the time goes...
it is already nearly october.
insanity.
sometimes everything runs well.
(hunger)
everywhere a homeless person
asking for change... i feel responsible.

contrary to all this, the cruise ships come,
spend their money on expensive things
(liquid text, writing, a summer house).
i hope that I can write soon, coherently.
so slowly finished.
---


a small impact.
the last week does not
participate in anything.
but that is also all the same.
---


he wants to believe in germany... or simply all of europe.
i come in vain into woyzeck. make me happy already!
trains escape into the next high-literary german play set. i am at times
strained. i have enough time to report in detail my criticism... am i dead?
one stands oneself in a shop, only the legs and the belly. a little sun on the
shoulders, a more pleasant heat. not so suffocating.
watch out, if you go over the road.
---


the ferry was promising Iceland so beautifully.
exactly the same, as one introduces oneself.
a completely beautiful port;
everywhere small flower pots,
multicolored and above all very british.
i looked for work, an interview or two,
an application form.
my previous teammates,
those wanting a personal record,
are regularly dead in the bed.
--

i think of you, anna.
you see so many mad things
that i know only from television.
i have dreamed of you;
rather a nightmare, because
we both were pursued.
i had to think directly of you,
you so beautifully drunk,
so full of suspense.
---


i read english.
i am yours.
i sleep completely
beautifully in cars.
i am an intermediate
ancestor,
on the way back to
the hard everyday work.
life begins again.
i enjoy the days and the snow.
---


typical quarrels with dad
("controversy is
nevertheless normal,
comes in the best families")

from the boat, from a slippery stone
in the bushes at the slope
we see the rain forest.
trees, windows and blinds.

only a dirty jacket,
a birthday celebration

we were complete
in a different world,
in hollywood, the film world;
enormous multistoried buildings,
lanes and louder dark.

we are pioneers.
the telephone will terrorize
and a few warm sunbeams
will be enjoyed,
before the cold.
---


a small aftertaste of
whales, 80s music,
dances and fights

("i am the gentleman in the house
and i decide everything...")

we drive together around the island,
industriously write letters.

we have in one of our shops
the autumn holidays in heart form,
like a living cake heart.
--

i am ashamed.
you are already so far away.
i think much of you and
whether you got a little colour.
i write you still.

i want out.
i sing only one song.
you forgot everything
that we had.
you have only the thoughts
in your head and
the pieces (and the others,
naturally, also).
appraisals, finally,
not at all times negative.

you are afraid of me already.
the empty unknown.
days off i now use
to sun myself in
orthopedic shoes.
better than aspirin.
oxygen refueling
for the drive.
thicknesses.

now i finally have time,
a little time, to write.
mail comes, promised!
a few photos, so i can
see where you are.
briefly in trains.
i thought my legs would drop.
the most important thing:
falling in love.

the way back took only
eight hours.
i found things, unpacked,
read letters.
still so slow, because
i arrived not at all correct.
make me happy for you.
make me happy.
---


the first picture is simply
perfectly grotesque.
on the left is your bed.
i have a film, a few
texts spoken, seen.

when you called
i was in a field.
i will tell you how much
i already do not have.
i feel you completely,
a doll embraced and
wished good night.
---


bubble tea is here already,
but called differently.
in the millenium, in the town center,
you feel as if you have been
transplanted to japan.
a multiplex, a few discos, a bowling alley.
oh, a simply boring stink.

only terrible things have happened,
including an assault at the bank.

i find by verse that you write me letters.
i pinch myself because it is simply too much.
i drink coffee, i only smoke to stop
myself from sending you a letter.
--

january, 06:

someone has shot a nail gun into the joint.
it only gets worse and worse.
all this misery can’t just be blamed on
the lack of snow in the winter.
rainy seasons are not good for
rainy day (week) blues.
a bunch of snow that doesn’t go away,
trapped in the house.
this is how i see my future:
one more month of
being uncomfortable in my body
followed by pain. followed by exhaustion.
i will spare you. i understand that
it will all be worth it.

i understand that
once the time comes for
those things to happen,
they won’t even matter.
---


i have been adjusting.
the most exhausting thing ever.
so tired all the time.
awake at 2am.
one of these beasts
giving birth again,
a catheter inserted.
I may just have
a nervous breakdown.
---


no time.
i underestimated.
the little beasties took me
away from you.
i liked not working.
i was selfish.
i have to reprogram myself.

i try to talk but i find
i have nothing left to say.

sleep is not a bad thing but
sometimes i forget.
i wonder what that noise is
when i start to cry.
these things will
work themselves out in time.

i am not ready to give up
documenting times and lengths.
i have to let it go.
i foresee much letting go in my future.

i think (maybe) that
I have left the blues times.
it is getting better.
self doubt is a personality flaw.
--

the young person goes west. west. it is the easier direction to go. it seems like falling. gravity remains. there is a fairness in going. it exceeds the ocean, speaks to the ocean. speaking is the only thing that maintains the mind.

the homicide gives a motive. the only person discovered is a pretty girl inside. compared to being me it is positive. all the different stars, the sun, the airport. i put the mountain on the counter, draw a blank. i am east.

i have started being the spiral shellfish, linear as the example whose introspection is terrible. i have lived with 4 a.m. being certain. a window has opened in me. pedestrians share my music. another tremble moves under my skin, and the muscles become tense electricity.

today being strange, time is wasteful. my pockets could be less crowded . i remove the chemical compounds and the glass. i pull the curtain open and reach the point where my clothing is like portable ice. i am moved.

i occasionally feel like writing an open letter to these shiftless supporters of no one, these people who have known. i am king. king, they now call me. i like the distinction. i am born, and i am moved like the old person who has lived.

we are constant. the behavior which has led to ignorance is the root of the problem. the wheel is turned, and we are caught, believing so strongly in our private hallucinations. it is the place where everything around us wraps around our heads. a certain retreat does not have to believe. i look at that which does not remain, and start solving the puzzle.

words fail me. perhaps that is my technical skill, or my conscientious subject. the death of dreams, and the error of believing that the dreams are a beginning. the hand, the palm which is opened. my word is the finger of the hand. perhaps this is the time when the fist is closed.

concerning the acquisition of defeat, the hard part is not defeat itself. after that is life. directly after that, the eddy coming. i feel like a bruised thing. i am older, with little fight. i do not fly through fisted rage. the fight i feel i can win is ignored.

the womb like meat, a cavity, unprotected and damaged. the year of truth and honest use pulled through the mud. dirty tears. we want the paper center, the last groove. passing by the sewer. left in the dissolving ocean, floating slowly with the brine. i exchange time with the clock in breaking.

the extreme space refuge, the indian rush, the inevitable atomic ash. the american people speaking english to the manuscript monkeys, violence. it is dangerous; it is good. i inquire about everything, death of all types. i am moved to empathy. these are the strange kind. and they surprise me.
--

it is better than yesterday, today or tomorrow. i like my fuel warehouse. two bed rooms and the common territory. my neighbor is good, and my buddhism professor is not forgotten. following life with him should find a certain invertibrate finishing the first can of beer . and how many by my side?

i look at the shadows on the wall. passing my window, the people walk. a little girlish knock on the door. my neighbor. i possess an appetite for expansion, and i possess the tendency to take things excessively directly. i lose my heart, raise the second center. my brain is removed, exchanged with the thing which is old and left alone.

my music is understood, almost audible. you inquire about what develops; sexual intercourse at the door. i ignore and elude pacifism, like a marionette on very short strings.

in order to travel, the light bends around me. the constellation withstanding, it seems like the celestial body where i move, the stars of my sisters. our deaths are escaping the dying earth entirely; i am pulled in the same way to the sky. and like mourning china and russia, i am the heaven of god.

the neck, fear, the tooth and death, the movement, and the supervision of the eye which moves suddenly. i swim under the dock. i start using up the air. the air is solid. describing fear is hard.

today i heard voices. my lungs hurt in breathing, my head hurts to think. the rain is late, and i can look at the stars. i inhale loneliness and see desire in the sky. the clouds pull closed, and the rain falls for the second time. the rain falls on my surface.

outer space is cool; it seems like the place of the sky. to be given up by the god of reliance, by the god of philosophy, means being burnt. the place where i should hide, there is no remainder. the shadows are twisted; the god of long division is truth.

the rain is late and the clouds have broken. that sad surface is warmed. i walk, passing the stores, stopping in order to look at the collection of pinwheels. memory and smiles atrophy. the sad face made warm. emptiness.

revolution, a phrase turned in my heart, a simple declaration. the sun of summer wilts, the season becomes gray. the future, the end. i advance to the cliff. the dream which the memory of day atrophies is exchanged with sleep. it passes; the movement of the body, the slow melting of the dawn.

a train, an electric fence, quiet. it is not different in the center where the city is deep. will the train stop? perhaps it does not see the way. what kind of hazardous nothing can substitute for popularity? for the first time, a memory of youth; announcements and hobos. the darkness and others and others.
--

this person glances at me, entering my room. we would like to speak, problems concerning that last night. when i speak it’s always to you; failure. you are something which has become so only by being damaged. you did not see, you did not look.

the guilt of your death; tired. at first glance, under the private road, the way when being placed on the ambulance your body was visible, the siren turned off. murder, boxes of bones in the ground. i do not know whether it is murder, whether you understand, whether to do that i cannot do.

you were my brother. you have remembered. i came with you always, grasped your hand, your hand. i squeezed the joints of your fingers. i am perplexed; a crime that you feel entirely, become aware of completely. i know that it is foolishness; you know that you have been ashamed of my conduct. you do not know whether my memories are what you want.

i would like to solve the problem of the world. helplessness is intolerable, it overwhelms. we would like to possess control, but there is no control. i cannot solve problems. i need exorcism of a certain kind. it is necessary for normal not to exist. i am old; i am not different. i am someone's puppet. the value of a thing made complicated.

i think that we would like to live. we would like to live for the people, but you already do not exist. perhaps it ends exactly.
--

february, 06:

you go away,
the words like fields,
the sky reduced.
gold is exchanged with
scatterings of brown.

the promise, whose truth is quick,
worry and the confusion
which becomes quiet with time.

leaving is hidden in lonely sleep,
the warmth and contact of
atrophied smiles and
empty truths.

the misfiring, once quieted
by your eyes,
now hidden in the solitary wind.
you leave me with a pile of
brown scatterings.

tranquil confusion;
smiles wither so slowly.
winter can arrive at any time.
--

it is difficult,
it is very difficult.

he is almost in cerebral death.

it is summer here.
i am satiated of cold.
winter is sandpaper.

i do not want to know of snow,
not in lisbon, nor in a small farm house.
i am satiated of walking
to beat the tooth in the street.

i want sun, beach and, over all,
time to enjoy it.

deceit.
--

fingers and photographs;
feelings are harmed.
remember?

i looked at the image
for the second time.
i became blind accidentally.

i reconstructed him exactly
to search for equipment;
the preparation where i push
two parts together was done
simultaneously.

i was recognized.

it did not work to break the unity,
and as for that foolish photograph in my heart,
a feeling like destiny being moved;
a fingerprint sans my hand.

i who was dropped am brand-new.
my body on the road where
atrophy is best.
---


loneliness and reflection are accepted
with other things.
the monk is a lunatic
and the hermit should be blamed;
always surrounded without anything to say.

the non division which uses division
is balancing time because of
intellectual pursuits and the easy route.
there are many entreaties and much less taxation.

the jaw, the hard upper lip,
that shallowness damaged only with grief;
i have remembered.

i have expressed something which i believe:
the blue that makes you see and is possible.
blue of substance, as indigo as an other feeling.
fear of the clamp, of being moved.

i turn off craving and attachment;
i cannot do things clearly in the kingdom of feeling.
drama does not answer the telephone;
your screams scattered over everything.
---


because of the rain, fear is piled up.
scarcity of sun can make seasons terrible.
i am struck with a hammer, maturing slowly;
i am troubled and causing problems.

i do not teach, i do not raise the child.

but sight possesses being,
and the thing which is done is something.
you scrutinize the blank screen as a protest.

i, being disappointed, am regrettable.
i am the bit which is disappointed directly.

fear is simultaneously
hunger and desire.
---


i am confused by the kingdom of history.
it depends on karen armstrong and france;
it is an interesting glance at gautama.
the empire principle covered with a veil,
american everything going to war.
i possess the proposition of many other things.
this is the crime: we have not lived.

i was joyful; i discovered the cancer,
the dominion of warfare.
i threw away what i wrote.

inside the city where we are identical,
the truth talks. the dream spreads out and
the possibility of sitting is a hazard
and an exaggeration.
---


i am called structure 101,
like a slave made visible.

a steadily pilotless aircraft,
the medicine of proper poisoning.

i write haiku,
a terrible small-numbered book;
it is another something,
conforming to the harmful conduct
called land.
---


regret.
several weeks are ended.

i do not regret that you
float for the second time
in my heart;
the baby who did not come
polluted by my jokes.

i am the bit which is feared.
i am walking fear,
gray everything, and blue,
and i cannot inquire about
certain things.

(you do not know,
you do not have to express)
---


the law,
based on old english law.
the history of buildings,
public record of the factual city.
footwork must be done.

a hole in the records
related to the property tax business,
general terminology, and so on.
it is pleasant raincoat work.

the public historical section is no friend.

i structure the education system and am inexperienced.
city exploration, illegal travelling through
the factory of the sky.

chicago is an old sanitarium,
the remnants of an enormous
mixture of tunnels.

acquisition of the dawn,
painters and musicians,
herr zahn and the usual.

pursued, and followed to
the road on the land,
memory limits the remainder of
murals where rommel is small.
hitler in photographs.
it seems that everything is
a catalog list.

a tube that led to the basement.
a german map from 1940.
the tunnels have started
calling to me.
--

march, 06:

are things made to end?
i have not remembered another way.

today is dim, it is the rain.
i do not make the air.
the train carries me to the
arabic food merchant,
the cemetary sweetheart;
appreciated in doubt, desire.
it burns in the same way.

you investigate my heart,
made to sit down here
where it is not possible for me
to express myself.
the professor person,
the eye for criticizing;
you hesitate in speech.
the way to interpret is
self-aggrandizement, simply.
---


recognizing/admitting.
carving/moment.
a hallmark it is not.
it possesses influence, it considers
being conscious, it pulls and,
assembling, it means
that non prose is grasped.

if by my medicine i repeat responsibility,
it is possible to strike me strongly;
i write poetry to robbe-grillet:
prose seems like the poetry of my opinion.
plotting? a circular type concerning method.
prose? a sort of method of poetic type.

you must suppose that there is deep meaning,
but it is difficult, it is vivid;
the fact that the optional sentence is chosen
is the joy.

the portion of pointlessness,
image making plotting subordinate.
---


the history of buildings.
he looks in the attic,
the 3rd floor:
that central operation.

he the luxurious storyteller,
he starts throwing things
from all the windows.
the building is a little old.

uniformity is superstition,
it makes the people live.
you think that doubt died here.

sexual intercourse
in the bedroom, the front room,
the kitchen.
murdered.
are there times when
it hides in the wall?
it happens.
---


a bad poem should not be worried about.
one should not fear making bad art.
a 5 minute silent picture:
the artist,
like a maori tattoo pattern,
turned around a plastic head.

you are trivial
similar to three other things,
a landslide at the end
of the year.
---


you laugh.
the window (seeing outside, shock):
the ceiling turns with the background.
it seems that is chopped up,
a repugnance.
reappropriating material
with respect to appearance.

there is a magnitude of desires.
it is not possible to become equal.
it is foolishness to be black and white,
but one grinds the part with the grindstone.
the eye which was trained becomes equal.

he is the picture which is scorned,
almost complete in all senses.

i am the thing that is weakened,
struck by a strange dream.
the red supervision,
the library;
we would like to find
many descriptions.
---


something based on thought;
someone in the kitchen.
there is a possibility of raw profit,
of everyone of inexplicable types.

the state of my sleep.

the cat tries to steal my breath
and the egyptian is
the guilt that suffocates.

you thought of the puritans.
symptoms include hearing psychology,
visual hallucination, the feeling where
destiny impends,
like being moved.

someone puts you in a box.


i believed those supernatural things and
thought that because of
the spate of young people,
my range of vision must
be attached to this state of consciousness
which i continue to call to.

it dies shouting with my head,
it confronts vision.

foolishness, this including heart.

i started to suffocate
but i continued.
--

a certain thing, a feeling, insensible motion;
the harsh private magnetism of satie.

entire indifference to the body
when the morning comes:
from sexual intercourse to
the house for visiting
(in order to ignore, you rejoice).

fearfully you reserve the air ticket.

there is a state where
everything is cloying.
you desire the stale seashore:
walking with the forest,
going to the ocean which looks
at the stars.

you who can form
the masterpiece of explosion sounds,
you are the scraper of the sky,
the capitalism of emptiness,
1,000,000 musical holocausts.
--

i have known
the splash of five hair dyes,
times of paranoia,
the awkwardness of
the teenage years.

i who am used becomes ruinous.

i am a drinker of intellectual problems,
coming to all the old pages
where one gin fizz cannot wait.

i break my glass, degenerating,
and accompany you to the
cave of crime.
---


i open the door.
there is a thing
which has been learned,
a postcard perhaps,
a kind of plastic totem;
the art of the people,
macaroni art.

a memory of the lock on the door.

empty-handed,
i go into the house,
and throw myself
at the foot of your bed,
attaching mud to the body,
being attached.

you can breathe me eventually,
the second time around.

i probably will collapse on the floor,
a conformity of brain atrophy.
---


my mother hates everything.
she has done the business,
a personal history of government.

she speaks the spark which is felt;
she is bad, being foolish.
she doubts herself, and my father.
i love that, naturally.

the place she submits to
is better than the necessity
to finish.
--

i have come to the end of grief.
the night dance
strange, used entirely.
there was music, everything,
like a killer, like rage.

the graveyard
(my grandmother, my two aunts
installed in the grave),
flowers and puttering;
my speech, my name.

i turn to the flowers,
the bench of commemoration;
the guest roster of the funeral
following time.
---


you are here
to make me remember.
you ridicule, flinch, forget.

last year it was not necessary
to walk with the thursday rain;
you must remember that yourself.

remember me:
your thin eye is soft,
can not stop you from
scrutinizing me.

but my eye is
the same trial thing where
on the hill you take the lead
for the second time.
---


a machine jumped
from the top to the bottom.
the raw materials moved in circles,
a straw raincoat dance.
i must sleep.

i submit to gentleness,
a green and blue
tidal wave coming
washing over me.

i would like to sleep
but it is not possible.
i am in heavy decline.
every holy hatchet is
an earthquake
like a train.
---


4:30 a.m., asthma.
i wait for the inducement of
a half dozen blanks;
orgasms, an image of a girl:
the traitor of jack kerouac.

my glance is a
cohesion characteristic.
the time of insecurity
is bought, is excessive.

that incomprehensible combination.

i am proper with
the monopolized ones,
the old women of insanity.

i almost always am there,
married to work,
convinced of the fact that this year
it comes returning.
---


in the house which cracks,
the room where 3 or 4 hours go,
i am tired, delirious.
this noise of sleep,
my blisters like
another country.

i immigrated,
painted with tapiocas.

today (yesterday really)
i started walking.
you are surprised.
you see, and really seeing,
discover a combat mission,
a wire entanglement;
this ordeal of coexistence.
--

now is an incomprehensible time:
revolution and my usual existence crisis;
i make everything ruinous.

i am the unmarried woman,
risen to medieval times,
separated from the burnt
remnants of an interesting town.

i am a reanimated corpse.
i do not know how to love.

i want more.
a compilation of
my happiness, empty romance.

i must come to grips with
the question, a clear possibility.
for the second time,
old abuse becomes drunk;
a happy holiday of my own
comparison.

i have lived excessively;
it is foolish,
a state of specification.

is there a loneliness, a sadness so desperate?
what kind of thought process is reaction?

my brain by mistake is something which,
concerning the world, did not learn at all.
i almost can touch a state where
i am smart because of that.
it is a sure road to success.

i cannot guarantee anything.
--

you became a thin baby;
stunning, confused with sartre
when he breathes.

the reference was not found.

it is pleasant, something not able to stop things;
it is the predicament which changes your life,
floating soon to a dangerous extent.

i verify the door,
ten parts of leslie
(her house, her message,
some kind of reference).

i and fifty other people make
the same mistake:
the foolish mistake of
measuring time
(that lunatic desire).
--

you enter immediately after
the remainder of today,
independently.

there is a thing
expressed,
and taken for
the second time:
a rose colored power,
your desire,
the eye where you
are made beautiful.

you make me unpleasant
as clearly as possible.

the wrongdoing of
your eye,
your broken eye;
i do not think that we
would like to be
anywhere by
any means.
--

looking in the eye of that
large question,
we adjust our lives in order to
accommodate each other.

i have lived here, closed,
permanently here.
the door closed, always
searching for him
in the vicinity of my feet
where he stopped the monologue
which i continue.

many foolish things.

i touch my hair and
he is expelled accidentally
from the edge of the bed.

he was my friend.

i speak to my worry,
my lonely stability.
he could not understand
the words which were said.

he is helped and handled well
in the house of the sky.
---


everything which is hell
is still around the house.
you were walking secretly,
fearfully.

that which i kill is red, is the eye.

you possess a central problem,
a heart seizure;
i can’t be reconciled to
the thought of it not
being different.

i really just am a cat woman,
a murderer of various types.

and you go.
and i let you escape.
---


imagine me:
bits of tinfoil and
the slurping crying
of mommy.

unpleasant.

a patch of sun on the carpet
a certain necessity.

waiting to die, touching death
with the toe. he pants with
his head covered in the incubator.

it was necessary to decide.
--

a smell, a sort of passing by the window;
links to the old, old life where
those that were with me escaped
my box of substitutions.

she is beautiful, still smart,
a monument to appropriateness.

i shout to her body.
i meet her everywhere.

she is the prostitute,
the innocence,
the thief i have known,
sadly beautiful, brown;
a hundred surfaces.

but she goes.

i cannot divide the smell of explosions
from the smell of the sea.
i leave to wander about, and look
at the wood, and exactly exist.

am i to be separated from the fact
that finally she’s gone away?
she does not display herself at all
in the eye of my heart.

the breeze passing by the window, now entering;
a feeling which is grief and is strange and is like the air.
those in life exist on that side, or comparatively are.

she sounded like noise, like silence.
but there i was, and by her poems
being urged not to lie.

to be good:
this is my revolution.
--

i sound like deflectionary things,
the raw materials of helplessness,
my taciturnity general.

the poisonous character of existence:
indifference when i meet you at the window,
jumping on the throat of my sleep.

this pulled heart still atrophied,
skittish, entire.

we who are repelled are rescued,
an elaborate, heart-breaking ceremony;
the times when those who are
given up in pounds are allotted only
the loss which comes.

it is sufficient, the memory where
a suicide of subject and name lives
in my infancy.

that which we call spinelessness is
not inhuman but a quiet fear,
a dirty fat quality, an orange
assymmetrical monster that bores
a hole through sound.

it is dark, guppy-faced humanity,
obtained in the romantic accessory of
arguments, of obligation.
--

nothing works, and progress
is gone from this place;
it is a cloud on my head.

we are everything, but as said
with so many words, there is
the remainder of the struggle.

we fear completely.

we colour ourselves with
desire, the believing,
the sting.

the craving thing.

the conviction of happiness is abnormal,
a method of defining your strength;
a state where the end is easy,
struck by sorrow and difficult to console.
--

she drinks the wine.
the polluted pink of her tooth.
she moves her fingertip; dry,
like sand. she experiences
living for the first time.
uniformity.

like a cigarette butt
under the heel,
doubt excludes the thing
which is crushed.

feeling, before this
random phenomenon,
like rubbish, like meat.

someone is beautiful here,
like a rag doll, like
a mountain of meat.

silence is moved because
you do not hear. this space
is occupied with something.

before nicotine and alcohol,
what? will she die in order to
feel this?
--

may, 06:

completely alone before the mini televisions of montreal,
before closed museum doors. standing here, moving outside.
the roads are as narrow as home.

i recover so slowly.

ottawa is a prison, an old prison, a death cell,
closed because of unhuman living conditions:
the backgrounds of pictures and bleeding noses.

they make themselves merry over a condemned woman.

i could not sleep at night,
the barrier of acres alive,
the dead branches of apple trees and
grape vines at the wires.

i slept like an illegal animal in the house.
--

june, 06:

i am a parody,
a cat woman.

i am dead,
so slowly, probably, nearly
only here.

too multicolored.

simple times, freely translated,
giant swarms carried forward
by the wind.

nevertheless, i praise
the good old east frisia,
where bicycles do not brake.
old swede, if I had not had those,
i would be burned through.
--

the orphan is caught by love.

a certain personality crisis,
audible, abnormal;
an excessively large joke.
i feel it come out of the eye.
it is knowledge, it is
personal opinion.

i have handled atomic ash,
general despair, gentleness;
it has made my bones freeze.

we fear the coma.
we would like to shout, feel
something heavy, honest;
a kind of meridian of kindness,
a challenge to definition.
--

i possess many qualities;
complete selfishness,
the method of making a mistake.

at the point where i start being
a feeling, honest person,
i am not moved at all.

i have been ashamed.

i fear the facts, the things which remain;
they turned many notes to spring,
all my parts imploding.

i choose my words carefully.

because of you,
a friend larger than all this business,
foolishness, infancy,
i have used some kind of logic.

when we try and fail, something departs.

i am a cowardly person,
a magnificent mechanism of apologies.

my internal organs
write these foolish letters which i do not send,
my dishonesty mostly being abbreviation,
hysteria.

i would like to strike
your hundred-hour surfaces.

take this letter as a kind of reason.
--

you call my life story
a ligneous regret,
a film before the loneliness.

i send to you my heart,
my insanity and stupidity.

i fight to be foolishly
serious and distant.

this feeling departs.

i am like the surface of the night,
with no courage,
no internal organs.

perhaps this the fact which
gushes forth.
--

august, 06:

i am ill-humored,
possessing a certain serious
worried problem,
my hand, my center, shaking.

my stomach is the sickness,
a panic seizure which
between months continues.

i have taken the route of good fortune
and sleep like the deceased.

it is not possible to make
eye contact.
it is not clear sorrow
or exact foolishness.

it is conditioning.
---

i would like to know those thoughts
which the cat thought.

i can maintain my composure,
one insensible feeling
bubbling on the surface.

i do not worry,
my usual monotone exaggerated.

perhaps a creepy existence is left,
permanently for the second time.

i go into the house of wax.

my first reaction is oblivion,
a method of trying that
decreases my anger.

i see in the voice
where my head is that
i am untrusting.

it is something
which becomes so
because of speech.
--

scrawled, pasted thought and image,
a thick papery storm;
a consciousness where you,
especially, are strange.

in a war of our imaginations and
in the midst of autocracy,
you are moved by being the struggle
that we can fight effectively,
the fight whose many years of
sanctuary are old.

necessity is always obstructed,
sleeping after the attack.

the pauper is directly poor,
sleeping on a bench in the park;
he almost dies in the origins
they released him of.

all will be possible,
like a calendar in the house whose
bourgeoisie is beautiful.

i make life, i am a human
manufacturing industry,
and you intend to invent the bed.
--

the well you inquired about,
the whistle and the exponential vessel,
collisions which come entering,
advice and acceptance.

i know, i worry
concerning those things that you know.
it is not useful, but a physical obect
that moves and travels.

understand, it is something
that has become so because of
this everything,
and when it goes it is both empty and old:
agoraphobia and hermitization.

we are creative ones of habit.

the remaining body is restricted to
remainders:
marijuana and valium,
bouts of drinking and pornography;
medicating things.
-



it is a cease-fire.
bombardment stopped
for the present.

i do not have big expectations,
making the believing and
making the mistakes;
humored and always attacked.

i am moved by being;
i disassemble subsystems.

the evacuee has returned to rubble,
an area which is death.
there is a tombstone for the unknown citizen,
and it has become these buildings.
-



the route of escape
is a possible playback of violence.

even in sarcasm he
steals my paranoia and
scotoma concerning
snatched messages.

eventually there is here.

he is the calm hurricane from which
my writing escapes naturally.

he has lived here as the air.

the characteristics i obtain
from my heart,
boasting, bragging.
regrettable.

it spans months in me,
thirteen hours of sleep and
a hundred embraces.
--

you are raped.
everything is pulverized.
it ends the world.

singing for the child who has known
the flash of the sky, the darkness
that does not hide bombs and
exploding things;
it becomes
the insensible sense.

your atoms continue without you.
there is something always.
--

there is in the wall of desire
the scars of excessively thin paint;
influenza and war and
the war which continues.

all nights are done in love;
perhaps he cheats,
but you do not worry.

it is the mountain which
the many poets walked.

it is a terrible color,
the orange of the horizon;
it starts feeling like
the heat of an oven.

and you know that this is
the edge of the world.
--

he is remainders and scatterings.
like a foolish boy, he possesses
the heart of a child.

the bubble around the brain which stops
people from actualization is
broken permanently, finally.

all this humanity surrounded by
whatever it is possible to express.

an enormous hole,
a decapitated being.
my feelings as lost as all this.

the pause which breaks
down everything is hard
and is useful; it is
the splotchy skin of old
men, and the pieces of woman.

you smile, absurd, at this
parade of sunken breasts,
this meeting of dead gods,
the aquatic fog of their memories
a lost discovery, their sighs
enlarged with the wind.

ecstasy in the improbable
inactive products of hearts.

a screaming, writhing pink figure
conveys the lessons of less,
religion a colour she thinks
she has seen in the senses,
in the mental water of stones
and forms.

the saddest, clumsiest
blades of razors cross her
asymmetrical chest, shapeless
ciphers of catharsis; sparseness
and slow abundance like
two flowers together in
the rusty shadow, the almost
empty ethereal sky.
--

i can make it if i just don’t see in your face the decomposition of realisation and dissolution. a pulse in the flesh regrets the words, flutters in its zigzag rhythms, clinging to the slope and hidden under branches. these meandering rhythms are the saddest, easily broken by nervousness. they resemble the corruption of the pockmarks of achievement.

the most beautiful things are the most vacated, the rectangular fog a deep thin gloom. the air of the close sky a handless trunklike bomb, eerie laments blown unseen by the wind; everything hanging on, impossible to fit in crates.

your crying women become clumsy but never quite lose their balance.