the osprey's stop at kensington

how am i going to start this
with mention of haitians looting.
intense-faced iceskaters breathing deeply
the karma drizzles out of their mugs
the rinsed bottles gobble spirits, soul.
he chopped mushrooms.
a transparent gull hangs on a string
in the rays. the setting sun
commences in the garden.
i'm making everything worse
their chemical families extinguish 
in radiant tugs at the concrete quilt.

aboriginals greet the king with a smoke ceremony.
protesters demonstrate diminishing bears in Pyrenees.

emotional rescue workers use muscles intensely to lift collapsed church.
a wedding ceremony sifts through a dense fog in India.

8th grade calculous teacher's desk tilts drastically.
EPGFZ shears the Ganova plate, accretes with the North American plate.

Strike slip faults produce events occasionally.
large pools of information well up like bogs.

i feel emotionally lost emotionally.
he's a gilded soul bored to death

he actually became so bored
he died, what a fate

everything is too obvious for methe real questions elude me

the fat systems manager controls the aimless html-knowledgeable blacks

i watched The Road
and i felt like i needed to act less emotional
but not sure to what level i act emotional now

do i need to go through what you've put yourself through?
i can't get these people
to shut up about how they really feel

i value a person for their looks
but alot of them are stupid
and get away with it

put the simpsons on
fell asleep
woke up at 2am
thought about them taking away
our house
briefly, instantly
life seemed suspended, unattached to other things
a thought and a grid of thoughts
connected by minds
when you slept your sleep
was weighted by death
and your bones are they heaviest
part of you
you sort of fall from
or falls away from you
appreciating people is a weakness
her nervous moons remind me
the work will never end
as i gaze upwards leaning on my rake
why do we continue to grope
in this kind of fog

let us get let down inside
by the fires
let's let language let us down
easily the way we know people to actually use
it and by the actual people
we know who use language
not the people who have been using it
not sure
there was another idea i had that i wanted to write
then i knew i had to write the idea from the beginning of this

'is he trying to get you back'
'yeah'
'are you trying to get me back'
'no'
'i am getting a bad wrap, don't you see that.'
'yeah. i know.'
open house. tries to steal xmas presents.
does slow equate to bad?
this is fucking boring.
i want you guys to call me
i am moving to new orleans
there's just going to be an actor there


feel asleep though i have copied myself
and i have not generated an essential element
what i like to find most interesting
sometimes i want not what i want
because i think i will feel bad her razors
have written some things
someone has said some things
and i feel i should be more productive.
i am not a product of people i like.
people ate my job they seem more a product of me
they seem to change less every day light
i change more days everyday
everyday i dissolve a little more
i have less time in my watch
i have less time to compete with my goals
there seems to be a underlying phone in frustration
when some little rings come inconveniently
a small hole opens and a little brandy of disappoint
i associate with you seeps up into molecular dust currents.
i am adjusting because my butt is filled with poop.
i cannot understand this thought vial 
language comes directly out of my body.

normally i feel that the thing that does the most efficient work is the most aesthetically pleasing
it seems like the thing that does the most efficient work is no regularly the first thing i try
or the thing that is receiving the action is the thing that should be giving the action
and i need to invest in all new things
or i should combine them
but i only want to do that in limited fashion
i keep doing this one thing
you have never seen me so emphatic about something
it seems i am always doing it and i don't even think about deciding that it's the best thing to do
even for the interest of itself.

vhs cassettes in the white plastic sit on the shelf
i like Bambi, Pinocchio, and the sword in the stone
we walk around and look at piles of clothes.
we see coffee in our cups.
i have not signed into my last fm account in a year.
my family is having a new years party.

they are the mourning they mourn.
seems bitter sweet or something.
this is how it happens eh.
it felt good.
they say he loved, fishing, dixieland, scotch, Seinfeld, and sculpture.
snare and guitar.
they presented cakes, lasagna, and cookies. we ate salad, and steak.
his recordings played as they
took him away.
his last trip down the driveway
in the middle of christmas morning.
they cried near the vacant house.
the house stayed warm for a while
after they shut off the heat.
a light stayed on. we wore blankets
everywhere.
the air around it seemed smooth.
the grass stuck up in a perpetual gust.
all the time she spent caring for the house.
you couldn't speak to the house.
two times it reached very bad states
the second the last state.
the message goes out
about the gone house.
it's not the kind of loss you think.
i found a sweet mp3 online.
should i say something to the house
or to the people looking at the house.
a friend will eulogize the house.
strangers will arrive.
they organize a bittersweet party.
i was made to think this wouldn't happen.
the dance in the living room happened. 
they dropped me off at the train
and i sat in the desk at work.
here i am.
they burned the house
and gave it back to us.
the dwelling is ultimately lost to us.
it is in town, or on the way to town
breaking the glassy surface out on the lake.
we all do what we want to do.
people are trying to do and say the things they want to.
people seemed still. people tried to move around.
to do actions. we sat and were completely idle for minutes.
joy got some cash though, for sticking by the house.
these normal people are strange and deep
and it's no credit to their character either.
don't know what to say to them.
or what they want me to say.
still will talk to them.

*

i feel consumed by her. if i could, after only a few sentences, i'd try to tell her i loved her.
sometimes a smell will consume me upon arrival. the way she'd stand for mystical the ideas mysteriously churning over the fire of her soul. the way she must know herself. sometimes the smell of her vagina.
it's been a great life almost 29 years.
no one conceives my lies for me. 

*