whatevs. please move. please take me home.

grandfather clock has to be
cranked every week.

what's the rule that poetry has to come from my life?

i need to use your cigarette lighter to burn my dirty socks.

matthew rohrer goes skiing and he wears a one-piece suit and a yellow stripe goes across the chest and a bright orange stripe goes across the chest and the suit is blue overall.

feeling slightly less severely-depressed
feel like depressed is the new crack
feel like depressed doesn't help depressed
feel like guy looked lion head
feel like guy with mirror cried when i cried
feel like sometimes late at night i cry on trains and don't care
feel like small patch of grass shrinking

you were really good. i liked all of you.
people were coming to church.
people began escaping from buses into church.
it began to snow, a commercial came on, and i liked you.
you were really good. i held you like a bear in your bed.

the hemlock path level reminds me of my childhood.
a radio keeps saying things downstairs.
one time i stopped to feel myself dying
and turned into a jetski.
then i was afraid of jetskies
because i became a 'wild' lake.

i approach things and think about them.
then i do things to them.
then i'm tired, it gets dark; and then i go away.

ann beattie eats an apple.
she puts a spoonful of almond butter in her mouth.
she chases the almond butter with lemon snapple.

i'm awake, i do laundry, and
the stupid yellow thing comes up.

okay, this poem is not about a relationship.
i have a journal filled with faded words in pencil.

i'm in a box.
my brain releases something into my flesh.
a dog comb floats.

i think my art is bad. i write a poem with the word teacup in it. i thought teacup was a good word.

my cheek just shrunk a little. i'm very depressed. i almost had crippling depression today. i thought crippling depression was funny when i thought about it as two words connected. i'm really sad, but i want to be different so i can make you happy or excited, less bored, more. . . just better or something. i feel stupid i tried to write a poem with teacup in it. i feel stupid for everything i ever did. i just want to see you and feel better.

obama talks in the background. i slump in the chair. i am slumped in the chair. i failed at everything. failing is good. i feel smarter when i fail because i have to justify my failing to myself inorder to keep living. i tilt my head and think 'something else now'. my head rolls backwards not a little. i think it rolled inside my head. it did a backwards summersault.

yesterday i watched a man cross the street and felt really good about everything. yesterday i felt good all day about everything. now i feel bad. i think i know why i feel bad. maybe it's the wrong reason. should i be concentrating something else than what i'm concentrating on? i have to stop writing. someone is putting bags in the garbage pales. the applause for obama sounds low, like they are booing beneath the congress.

are you watching/listening to obama? i want to hold you, please.

i'm holding a chicken pot pie
steam rises from a hole in the crust
i look out the back door window
my head is level with the backyard
a baby deer lays curled up in the middle

when we walked down the cobblestone street
holding hands with parents that weren't ours
the crowd broke and a small child stood alone crying

maybe there are parent's somewhere
who lost their sons in car accidents

the words float off the page
like cars parked along the side of a street
miles ross stares at the blog page
the blog is blue

miles ross hears iko iko by a 'new orleans band'
coming out of the computer
he forgets putting his head down
miles ross thinks something is happening, something 'big'
he thinks 'it's moving slowly, big, people pushing the big blue thing'

he looks into the blue light
miles ross puts his head down in the fold of his arm
miles ross hears analog boy by 'rx bandits' coming out of the itunes

the blog thinks about miles ross
it comes at miles ross, holding something
miles ross will never be miles ross
miles ross will be many times stupid
miles ross is a notion
he thinks about people on the internet

miles ross hears 'you know i'm no good' by
amy winehouse coming out of the computer

it's bread wrapped in a paper bag
that is blue, glowing and fury
the bread moves, falls to the floor
and crawls to a perverse area of brown wood floor
it stops
broccoli floats towards it
the broccoli floats away

ellen kennedy signs online
kenneth anger looks at her screenname
it's floating a little, like a tree
kenneth anger clicks on her name and a message box comes up
kenneth anger types 'hey'
my finger rests on the enter key
kenneth anger feels nervous
his finger pushes the enter key a little
then it pushes it more, but kenneth anger doesn't feel like he controls his finger anymore

five minutes later ellen kennedy hasn't responded to 'hey'
kenneth anger waits three more minutes
kenneth anger signs off
kenneth anger signs back online
ellen kennedy is still signed on
kenneth anger puts up an away message
kenneth anger changes the message
kenneth anger takes the message down and makes himself 'available'
ellen kennedy's screenname goes idle
but kenneth anger doesn't see it. kenneth anger thinks she signed off.
then kenneth anger sees she just went idle.
then she goes un-idle.
ellen kennedy's screenname just stares at kenneth anger.

kenneth anger thinks about typing 'hey' again or an evasive statement like 'so you're writing a book' or 'you're working on poetry?' or 'do you go to the gym?' kenneth anger is not thinking 'kenneth anger has limited time to talk to ellen. kenneth anger thinks kenneth anger somehow knows that the time will end and either not talking to her or talking to her will be a better situation than having to make the decision to type a message again.

a different person messages kenneth anger
they talk about basketball