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The Facts about New York 1-10

1. He does not want to call or say anything so I said I miss you and I do wish you would.

2. They said maybe saying "please call" would help. This does not work. Certainly because he is not inclined to speak, nor does he wish me to speak or to let my desire be known to him. He wishes us to be even, to be inside the silence together, as in an agreement.

3. There is no doubt about dreams. We dream together and apart. We dream eachother's hair beneath the breath of summer, while the curtains shake and go silent. I dream my love for him in stone and steps. My love is Rome. My love bears the steps and the sun. My love is under an animal sky, bright and hard. His love is not so. His love is the person inside of him loving me. It is a sleep. He calls, he does not, the cars, the air switches.

4. We call inside of a jar. We sneak into church. We say "hi" to people, to the dead, the piece of blue light on the wall.

5. I love the people who can do nothing but love eachother below. The people in the dark ground, with their ears cinched and their eyes down. The flowers of June and the flowers of Fall. Blossoms breaking out of their mouths. The people in love with the train, with the bus, the bodega, the rows and rows. They call and they don't call. They are forever in the space of someone else's body. The space created by a heap of stone. The space created by their hair. They are what they are looking at in the dark, what they are fixing up on the shore, what collapsed at night into soft and righteous birds.

6. Begin melody, with the voice learning the sounds of words, that breaks the words in, that breaks them and stops. The voice of the air shaking the leaves, the voice of homes, of light on the hands of the earth. Begin ringing and ringing and stopping on me. The voice that burns out my thinking, that spoons out my thinking. Begin in explanation, the tourists are listening to baseball, the tourists are ordering chocolate coffee. This feeling of beginning, being called upon, being on the other end, it is a voice, a trilling, a fence of sound in the snow, in the tangle of summer, it's roots. The voice of my mother. The voice of my mother blacked out. A voice unto the green June, poppyseeds and broken eggs, and the voice of the pool. It is disguised as a discretion; Taped! Taped! playing on the bus of June. That blasting the rain. Their voices on the bus, their voices rising aught they be called, the people rising, their arms raised, and look the maniacal sky, the food of peace.

7. I am waiting for someone do you fucking mind. I in summer sweater. I in sandwich shop. Wait to be called. I am waiting for the person of my life, stop. I am waiting amidst the food of peace. The food of the might. The food of forgetting I am waited on.

8. I dream of walking all over my life in New York. These are the porous flowers of my dreams. The water running over the roofs. My love, my head. The sky breaks at night and the voice is fuzz, is behind sleep, below my stomach, breaking and calling up the silence.

9. My love makes books. The love of the world demands this making. It is the making of a room to be inside. The other end is a rustle, a lurch of things being made. I am asleep in a house of books. I am canned in a house of books. I make myself out of the books, eat, kiss everything.

10. Again the bells of June again they call up the death confetti. The plane dips down. The plane of thread. There are all these things to being aloft. Levels of sky and shadows of clouds. The formulation toward. The white hair on your arms. There are so many things aloft, swinging up on the seats of pain, shaking, aloft. At the end of things being, with white hair on your arms, gently gently. This white cloud on your head, asleep, death. The seat that is next to your wife. Being is a thing inside a cloud. Your wife is touching your arm. It is white. In the broken air of the aisle, it is sleeping. It is the seat of thinking, the seat of sleep. Your arms are covered with hair and thread, are clouds, are of your self, your life, are touching her, the air, are wearing down whitely, safely down.

cow cow cow

Cow:
of the onesies
ringing the tree pre-
storm:

the form of a
thing is the thing
eating at the ground,
says I, , speaking

betwix clumps of fescue
flanking the step,
in accordance w/

C. Olson, kind
of a cow himself, at 6-
1o' in brown trowsers


Little Sparrow, you may land
on your pleasure:
yard of my love, bull head, any-
where: backwards

& if I do not finish
looking at you,

if dangerously perched
on pond
on birch or cowback
with it whipping
the skin of itself
on a fly

well

The bull does not

The bull does not end the bull is $613.39 is calling me at work and calling me at home the bull has a roof over my head, a job, above all the bull is calling at 8, at dinner, during brats and beer with Gail and Fran, the bull is a tool for the upper middle class and the bull reads Harold Bloom in tompkin's square park amongst the wild black squirels, vegans, good looking guys on skateboards with dogs and the bull drinks water on the edge of the bay, running itself into the wood, into the dark pages of glass and leaves, forensic, the bull is giving the credit people a call to say hey your 35 days late to dinner to the silverware to the sewing of someone's books it is eight it is nine it is ten

Hello Pavement,

Everything should have a kit I think eveything should have a kit I think the world is a bunch of tangled rubber tubes and everything should have a kit a kit akin to the rubber tubing that holds yoga mats together we are all bodies of rubber tubes ala doctors and lawyers and characters in the backs of trucks on the way home any Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday kits for their going agog a wind kit come what may kit, the gnats and wasps knitting kits around our wet faces today is a kit for tomorrow a kit is an outfit hurray horror kit hotel congress bathroom kits in the dead of night with the tv on and the outline of a man behind the security door I need more pockets more kits more silence inside my close.

for ever

I go to the 17th street market. I need light bulbs and spinach. There's a lesbian in there following me and she's old and needy. I pick thru the spinach, green onions, etc. and she is looking so interested I put the goods in someone else's cart. I can't go back.

My dream last night: my mother was getting fucked on top of the lake by someone's little brother. My boyfriend is there taking a number.

There are no light bulbs at a Farmer's Market. It hurts when my boyfriend avoids looking at my face.

There is sickening right after I get off work. It follows me around and I'm thinking of its impeding period.

I'm thinking of becoming missionary. Someplace where good and bad are opposites. The children that are crumpled up in their chairs and not knowing it is you dressed up like a clown. You, ten years ago, bright.

I think heavily about the difference between defining things and measuring them.

A definition is finite, perfect in the sense that it is bounded.

"A mid point has is equidistant from two endpoints of a line. The measurement does not end. It is halved and halved."

For some reason I have been illustrating this to myself over and over. It is my way of looking at my favorite graph. The picture of two asymptotes: one going up, one going down to the same point.

1. On my way to work this morning I saw this plate:

ARIZONA
HOPE 1


2. There is a little boy who lives at the juncture of 16th and Arizona Avenue, where I turn to get home. On Sunday, he was wearing church clothes and a rat tail. He jumped up and down giving me the double finger and made me laugh. This evening, he was naked.

Prayer for the Personal

It looked like it was really going to rain today. We walked to Sonic and had two tiny banana splits and I could have sworn it would rain when we were walking, tho it is not a surprise to feel everything about to, then no. Not the littlest thing, Lord. I felt the form of the clouds when I sat back down and I went out to see again. There was no rain. My boss poked out and I followed him back in. The garage door shook the runners. My hands hurt, which some people say is significant. I didn't read my horoscope. There was no rain when I beat my boss out of the office and out on the road and pulling up my gravelly drive. Rain on the books outside? On the door left open to air out the fumes? Rain when Misty called to talk about ages 26-29. Our voices broke over and over. The helicopters were almost upon me.

Now the night is done. There is no one outside my apartment as there is no one inside this prayer, Lord. I feel as tho I have traded one precious thing for another and I do not understand. How I am to sleep to sleep.