Story of a Diary

I, a penury-gifted snuff-film screenwriter & part-time legal proofreader, of sane mind and warily possessing passingly excellent  command of crossed-arms, wound-up-European-style language and Java-fueled conference-conjugal-room-speakerphone-jargon, have wanted to ask very few things from life and wanted even less to be troubled to make a list or a purpose or a purposive proposive list naming, first and foremost for most, the very few objects of my desire I have, considering my intellectually spiritual material poverty, neglected, too late now, for even life's expectedly silent close-captioned response, to ask.  But today, the darkly governmental day my girlfriend left me to go back to her Lithuanian husband with whom I share all physical traits except teeth and posture and crow's feet, has brought my failure directly into my heart with the speed and force of a 5 yr old girl sweetly handing me a mustard-stained crayon drawing of a last game of hangman I'd forgotten I'd agreed to play.

At a certain coffeeshop in which I used to attend watching sexually desirable female students concentrating intently on writing queer and feminist informed revisionary theses on Henry James and Ernest Hemingway, the floor was scuffed, divoted concrete leftover unimproved from the garage it used to be.

About halfway thru the store, near the creamer stand, the floor imperceptibly arose on a gentle incline such that returning from my cigarette on the pation, I always ended up scuffing my feet and stumbling due to my ape-lazy gait which hardly bothered to lift my feet more than 1/2 of a 1/2 inch  when locomoting.  If the way one walks thru life is shadowed, like those Jesus footprints on the beach one sees in Protestant homes, by the way one walks to get Doritos or condoms from the nearest Golden Pantry, then I have wasted my life on dragging feet.

But now I shall begin to name the things I want in life.  Though I tend to have wildly, balloon-animal inflated notions of my own literacy, I want my own personal, full-hipped & buxom bullshit inspector, a candy-apple love to call me out on & with my candycorn shit, a cotton-candy love to ground me to the earth like a prison-guard-parent taking away my car keys and hiding them in the ballasting sandbag weighing down the hot air balloon of my prided fast-food-value-menu-investment-expertise.

I want distinction and want it to come to me at a time wherein I can fool myself into believing I already had it, the distinction of choosing a wine I carefully researched and consequently being commended by those who've done their research on my exquisite taste and pairing abilities.  I distinctly want to subscribe to a magazine called Distinction which I can hide under an H&K 9 mm in each glove compartment of my 23 BMWs and 47 Mini Coopers, each one painted as a 3rd world nation's flag or American microbrewery logo.  I want to vomit hope for the afterlife somewhat unexpectedly.  I want work more interesting than a modest, postapocalyptic TV movie.  I want to ask bold children dying of obvious malnutrition, "Are you a drug addict? If so, do you believe in America?  Do you believe in America by looking for work?"  I want my mouth to distend in exaggerated shock and output singlehandedly the highest annual per capita output of elections of any country in the blonde, kaput-scratched stubble of the squeezed round cheeks of the world.

I want to weather Transhumanist enthusiasm with eyes-wide as a Hurricane the size of Jupiter descending red-eyed and overcaffeinated to Earth to rip it apart with floods and winds raping and impregnating its swans with the phrase "That's-not-strictly-true" raining acid cats and dogs like backasswards gods.

I want to go to the bathroom.  I want a kindly international hand to fall to the floor between my face and my fear, to fall like a sofa full of lost quarters and used needles, to fall like a rain of sofas offering with disgust their soft-comfort.

I want you to extend a toe and pull the entrepreneurial page to me.

To the familiar hour which adjusts under the ceiling of warning, let the specifics get their own tickets.  Working a knot of pain, the fastidious windows shall look less real unhelped by sighs, and somebody will come to the door, having made themselves clear.

We All Love Bea So Well

For Carrie Mumah

Bea and Bea were sisters and were almost twins.  One Bea was Beatrice and one Bea was Beatrix.  They were almost the same with one difference between them.  Beatrice Bea was a little girl with bangs who was always in bed and never left it.  Beatrix Bea was a little kitten who lived in her tree and often came to visit.  Beatrix Bea had her tree just up above the bed of Beatrice Bea who was always therefore underneath.  That is not so far to go.  Bea and Bea were so very close.  They were so close because Beatrice loved her bed so well.  They were so close because Beatrix loved her tree as well.  Beatrice loved Beatrix and Beatrix loved Beatrice.  Bea loved Bea and Bea loved Bea.  Bea and Bea were sisters and loved one another so very well.  This was how they lived and how they loved together.

One bright day Beatrice was feeling whiney.  She was feeling whiney and she was being whiney.  Beatrice was whining.  Beatrix wondered why was Beatrice whining.  It was bright it was hot it was shining.  It was the very hottest season.  That was the reason.  Beatrix wondered what could she do.  Beatrice was whining so.  So well Beatrix said to Beatrice, “Don’t be a sore baby.  Here is some sorbet, Bea.”  Sorbet Bea sorbet Bea sorbet Bea.  Now she was not whiney.

Beatrix Beatrix Beatrix Bea what do you see.  The wind was carrying something.  What could it be.  There are so many somethings that the wind could carry.  Beatrix saw it and Beatrice caught it.  They were a good team.  They were a very good team and what had they got.  It was paper.

It was made of paper and it was a bag.  It was a nice paper bag.  Beatrix could crawl inside.  Beatrice giggled at Beatrix but Beatrix knew what only a little kitten could know.  She knew how cuddly a paper bag could be.  So Beatrix Bea cuddled and cuddled and cuddled and cuddled and cuddled and cuddled inside her new paper bag.

The next morning Beatrice saw that the wind must have blown something else also.  It must have blown seeds because now there were flowers in a ring.  A ring around her bed all of lilies and lavender so lovely.  She said it was lovely but she thought it was strange to be in a ring.  What could it mean.

Then Beatrice Bea in her bed called up to Beatrix in her tree.  But Beatrix was being lazy she was still being sleepy.  She felt it was still rather early.  But Beatrice persisted.  She insisted.  She said, “Beatrix Beatrix Beatrix Beatrix Beatrix come and see a mystery.”  So Beatrix jumped to the bed from her tree.

Now there was a thing I forgot to mention and now I remember and now I will tell you.  Beatrix did not live just in a tree but she lived in a house.  The house was on a branch of the tree.  It was not a tree house even though it was a house and it was in a tree.  But really it was a doll house.  Beatrix lived in a doll house and so Beatrice always said, “You are a little doll.  You are made of little doll shaped pieces.”  So that morning Beatrix came down from her tree but first she came out of her little house for dolls.  And when she jumped down Beatrice could see that she Beatrix Bea had in her mouth a thing that was sparkling.  What did she have wondered Beatrice Bea.  It was another mystery.  “I found it in my little doll house,” said Beatrix Bea.  It was a diamond ring.  It was Beatrice Bea’s grandmother’s ring.  How did it arrive and where did it come from.  Beatrice gasped and  then she said, “Beatrix look at the flowers at the lilies and lavender they are shaped like a ring.”  And so then Beatrix also gasped.

But Beatrix was so excited she was too excited to think too long about the shape of the flowers.  This was how well she loved flowers and she absolutely loved lilies most of all.  She felt lilies to be most absolutely cuddly of all.  So she leaped into the lilies and cuddled them all.  There was a large patch of lilies and so Beatrice could see for so far many many lilies and at the end of them was being cuddly little Beatrix Bea.  It looked like this.

Lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily lily Beatrix.

Beatrice watched Beatrix and suddenly thought of something nice.  She was always thinking something nice.  This was especially nice.  Nice and pleasant she was thinking of a bath.  If she never left her bed then how could she how would she when and where should she enjoy a bath.  She thought and she though and she wondered and she dreamed.  A bath was best when the water was hot.  That is soothing and relaxing.  A bath a bath a bath how ever will it be little Beatrice Bea.

Soon enough the stars came out and it was time for Beatrix to go in.  She went into her little doll house because this is where she slept.  In her house up on a branch of her tree and the stars above and her Beatrice underneath.

Well the stars they twinkled and the stars they shone.  They flickered and blinked until Beatrix Bea did dream.  Of what did she dream what was the thing.  It was made of paper.  It was made of paper and it was yes it was her little paper bag.

In the morning when she awoke Beatrix did just what she wanted to do.  She cuddled with her paper bag.

Watching Beatrix gave Beatrice and idea.  No one knows how an idea gets in to someone.  No one knows but it does happen.  She had an idea about how to have her bath and never leave her bed.  Because a bath is like a bed.  She said it again and again.  A bath is like a bed a bath is like a bed it is like a bed a water bed.  How ever did Beatrice get such a thought in her head.

Then thought Beatrice all about something sweet.  Sweet sorbet.  You could eat sorbet in bed even in a water bed.  But sorbet.  What could it be.  Could sorbet be a bed.  Beatrice asked Beatrix, “Could sorbet be a bed.”

Beatrix said, “If sorbet could be a bed I would absolutely cuddle it.”

Then Beatrix Bea went back into her paper bag.  She curled herself into the shape of a ring.  It was time for little kittens to be getting sleepy.

Beatrix preferred her baths before bed.  She licked and she licked and licked and licked.  Beatrix Bea up in her tree licked herself clean.  Then she said, “Goodnight.”

So the stars all came out the stars came out.  Beatrice in her bed looked up and watched all the stars come out.  They danced around like a crown.  They danced around like a shimmery shiny sparkly something.  Beatrice thought of her grandmother’s ring.  She looked at her ring and she thought of Beatrix Bea curled up like a ring.  Well her grandmother was also named Beatrice.  She was the original Beatrice she was the very first.  So Beatrice loved Beatrix and also loved Beatrice.  She loved kitty witty catty watty little Beatrix Bea and she loved her grandmother Beatrice she loved them with glee.

Beatrice Bea fell asleep looking up at the doll house in the tree.  Her little love was inside snoring like a little baby.  Like a little baby doll.  Her doll house was for her because she was a baby doll.  It was grand it was the loveliest it was the most perfect most amazing most beautiful glorious incredible loveable and all together most interesting doll house there ever ever ever was.  But even better still was the baby sleeping snuggly.  Even better than the perfect house was the perfect doll.  Best of all was Beatrix Bea.

Now a story about stars and flowers.  This was what Beatrice dreamed of.  She dreamed that very long ago there were many many stars but there were not yet any flowers underneath.  The stars all twinkled and shone.  It made the earth long for something of its own.  So the sky gave a surprise.  It sent the earth  some stars.  But when they all arrived they seemed so different.  So the earth made them her own and their lights became petals and their flickering became sweet smells.  And the earth thanked the sky and the sky said, “I like what you have done with them.”  And then they hugged and their hug was the sea.  And this was what Beatrice dreamed.

The next morning she woke up and she looked up and what did she see.  She said, “The absolute biggest flower is a tree.”

Then Beatrice noticed a sad thing.  Something was missing.  What was missing was the flower ring.  All the little lilies and lavender had gone away.  And what was worse was what Beatrice noticed next.  It was awful it was terrible it was the worst thing there was.  Her grandmother’s ring was also vanished.

Beatrice began to whine and she began to cry.  Beatrix in her tree did not know what to do.  She only knew one thing to do.  She jumped down and started to cuddle.

But Beatrice kept on crying she kept on whining.  Beatrix had to think.  What helped her think was baths.  She ran back to her doll house and started to bathe.  Lick lick lick lick.  She was getting an idea.

She remembered a thing that Beatrice had said now how did it go.  Did she ask could sorbet be a bath.  Beatrix finished her bathing and ran out the door.  She ran to take sorbet to her little sore baby.  

So Beatrix jumped down to Beatrice in her bed.  She said, “I have brought you a feel-better gift.”  And then she cuddled up and purred.

And then a wonderful thing.  Beatrice scooped the sorbet and there on the spoon was nothing other than her grandmother’s ring.  How did it get there what did it mean.  It was a mystery.  Beatrice was so very happy.

This was so exciting it made Beatrix tired and sleepy.  She went to her tree then in to her doll house.  Then she had some dreams.

She had many many dreams.  Why so many dreams.  Well because the stars were now out.  That is why we dream because the stars come out.  There were so many that in the night there would be dreams aplenty.  But in the day there is just one there is just the sun.  What a lovely dream it has us dream together.

In the morning Beatrix found the strangest thing.  Her paper bag was full of flowers.  She curled inside and made the paper bag a bed.  A flower bed.

And so this is how is went this how they lived Beatrice and Beatrix this is how they loved and lived.  Every night the stars came out over the tree and set them dreaming.  Beatrix all curled into a ring inside her little paper bag life was so good and sweet.

This was how it was this was how it was.  In the daytime she little Beatrix Bea came to visit the bed of Beatrice Bea and together they would cuddle cuddle cuddle cuddle.  Then once again it would be time for dreaming.

And yet again once again the stars would arise and Beatrix would return again to her little doll house.  And once more before bedtime she would eat some sorbet.  Before bedtime she would bathe she would cuddle up with everything.

So it was so it was.  This is how it was.  Then one night sweet Beatrice Bea was of course in bed because she never left.  That night she looked at her ring at her grandmother’s ring and she remembered the mystery and what did it mean.

She thought of what could it mean that the flowers had brought her grandmother’s ring.  What did flowers mean.  Now we have heard where flowers are from and how they grew and got their petals and started to show off scents so sweet.

But what to do flowers mean.  Flowers mean to remind us.  Remind us remind us a sweet scent is a memory.  A memory is to keep.  Sweet scent sparkle and blink and shimmer and shine.  Beatrice Bea began to think of what it could mean.  All of life is made of little diamond things.

Beatrice Beatrix Beatrice Bea there is loveliness in all that you see.  The paper bag loves the tree the sorbet loves the bath the bath loves the ring that reminds it of its water rippling.  The tree you see is a great flower that loves the little ones all about you lily and lavender.  The ring loves the tree because the tree hides inside a new ring for each and every birthday.  Cuddles show love for the bath when you bathe your love in them.  Flowers and stars are of course madly in love.  And the stars love sorbet since it is soft like petals just like its love.  Your little doll house loves your cuddles.  The little paper bag loves being just what it is.  Sorbet loves the bed when you eat it there and your bed loves the doll house all full of furniture to be arranged.  And stars love to cuddle of course they do.  And the doll house loves the ring the ring loves the bed the bag loves the flowers that fill it all up.  The flowers love sorbet they think they are related.  And the sorbet loves the tree it is a sorbet tree that is what it believes.  A bed loves a bath and the bath loves the stars a sea of stars.  Little paper bag loves sorbet it says, “My love my love I will carry you away.”  And flowers love to cuddle isn’t that obvious.  The stars love the ring they are practically the same.  The tree loves its sisters and brothers and fathers and mothers all trees trees everywhere you see they say, “Climb me climb me.”  Cuddle the stars for they love to be.  Your beautiful bed is abound with love.  The bath loves the doll house the doll house loves the flowers every single one it also also also loves the bed.  The paper bag loves the stars its beautiful desire.  Sorbet loves the flowers soft and snuggly.  The bed loves the bag the bath loves the tree the sorbet loves to cuddle could it cuddle the ring the rings of the tree.  Flowers and bath little bag and doll house.  A bed full of flowers a bath and a bag a bath in a bag a little kitty witty bathing inside of a bag.  The doll house loves the tree.  Your grandmother’s ring radiates and sings.  Cuddle cuddle cuddle all the cuddles are loves.  Sorbet loves the doll house the bed loves the stars.  A bath loves the flowers its waters are all scented with lavender.  The stars all love the tree.  The flowers love the tree loves your cuddles and hugs cuddle its rings when you wear your grandmother’s ring your grandmother Beatrice Beatrice Bea.  Beatrix loves Beatrice and Beatrice loves Beatrix and Beatrice loves Beatrice and we all love we all love we all love we all love Bea so well.

Pastoral #3.14

The birds are a clear sock of witnesses who also die.  Along with the dry morsels of shortbread, the year neatly finishes a rudimentary ricochet of the book.  Fluttering my vision to beat out a tongue of suicided cheese I can, vomiting diets, no longer endure.  I offer a raped field clapping condolences to several male witnesses suffering from various species of children's-verse-weight-loss.

My head differs.  Even underwater parts of my head feel dry, as if purporting to summarize air, I had suffered bravery in an apology-center from a comprehension test.

The children are buried alive under a brutally tubed soil of "not-being-touched."  Fall is here, even tho my armpits sweat & hobos with mozzarella in their beards are crossing their legs in a wedge of sun.  A face that wasn't in it suddenly seemed real, like lipcreases sliding down the small of kneaded weather into a slow, steady plain to hiss like the pillow of a father's body.

The sound of a faucet following swollen commands puts a finger to the seat of my lips wished deep inside everyone.  In moments of durable war-like intimacy, the head itches like a straitjacket, allowing the equipment of a bedroom to be impotently cultivated like a riding bit of deep-tickles archived for the purposes of later listening to life catching on.

2 short poems about Herman Cain

1.

It doesn't get much more stupid than that.
& then it does.

2.

Herman Cain fucked a hot pizza on a train
& ended up with a burned dick that was also sprained.
O poor Herman Cain
How long will you entertain?

I Wish This Was the Stupidest Poem Ever Written

Of course, you'll forever remain a hyena.
Ppl will be surprised you're actually listening.
It's so uncharacteristic.
I think I'm gonna stop talking now.
Clean & wear yr plate like a No-TV-2nite-necktie.

We're in the Age of Bad Ideas

I hate ya'll.  Follow me.  I got a bad feeling I'm coming.
I just can't find an email I'm comfortable with.
If I was forced 2 drink Arbor Mist I'd be harder pissed.
Man, I don't even know what I want.
Michael Jackson.  Fish soup. A million dollars.
You're famous.
I like the cut of yr jib.
A jib can be all kindsa things.

Rules of/4 Art

 Hot Tub Time Machine is better than 99/100 poems

Of that 1%, Hot Tub Time Machine remains more enjoyable than 99%

This remainder, however, the Other .0001 floors us while

Hot Tub Time Machine only splits our sides—and heads

Because of this, all art must aspire to Hot Tub Time Machine

at first

Without prior achievement of Hot Tub Time Machine, poems, paintings and pictures

About our dads, dogs and philosophy are just that

boring, private tributes to a public object that should remain so

This is what makes Whitman's Drum Taps and Carson's Nox

more than just poems "about things"

W's desire for ripening in the southern sun is a nostalgic redoing one can get behind while

C's accordian structure is five gallons of cgi'd projectile vomit

This is why the best artists in both their early, nascent, budding periods

as well as older, post-developed states entertain playful streaks

Without his golden ear, Eliot wouldn't be Eliot

Prufrock would be Parson; still

Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats remains his fluorescent achievement

Ulysses doesn't reach Hot Tub Time Machine until "Wandering Rocks"

doesn't surpass it until Steven breaks the chandelier

but boy, that's why we swoon when Bloom makes cocoa

Spicer's radio is a Hot Tub Time Machine, but if there's one

in Duncan's—as in Olson's—field, I sure as fuck can't find it

Spenser and Chaucer, though, surpass a Hot Tub Time Machine with line one

Thats why they last

Shakespeare, here, is notoriously absent because he is a Hot Tub Time Machine