Dream Mar. 12

A building on flame

A live cop standing over the body of a dead one

Supuround3d by a throng

A bomb or a firework handheld bewilderment it

Could be a beer.

A house with old friends who are no longer friends

It occurs to you/me-

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx everything is on fire

This is neither memory or dream fate bears witness birds

Nothing is owed but now. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx People are dead.

A reflection of yourself at its worse x in the mirror atmosphere

Dead moth smolder as xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx eyelids xx held

Stapled body

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx who is haloed gold like a vision?

Saint Teresa whispers

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx We grey husk

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx helium sentiments

xxxxxxxxxx & xxxxxxxxxx Ticonderoga cask over the oven tongue

skull

| notes on the bus to Ithaca

Mar. 7

U always feel bad on the bus, especially during the holidays. Even in small miracles like the | last | bus | suddenly becoming two. A last supper with strangers loving children who | were more like ghosts. Nobody has pissed | in the mezzanine and there’s not a cop or national guardsmen in sight so you piss in the mezzanine like a baptism.

Times Square is still a shithole. Not as intense as it was | in the 70s | nor as deviously | fun but it still feels like a carnival | for the working-class hamlets dotting south jersey. | Under the millions of fancy parlors and Broadway shows , its just | a seedy place full of desperate people. The headquarters of the NY times faces the port authority 8th and 42nd sitting across a dollar pizza spot. Some SROs are scattered in random discrete brown stones dotted here and there like a spider web or a star gasping for the center. | I guess that’s where some of the desperation | come from, the old guys especially, retired beat era wierdos and ex hustlers who used to be kinda

beat guys but never wrote anything good, or wrote stuff too good and had a falling out with someone who had power. . Now they’re crippled alcoholics | who wheel around the alien cathedral of their youth. The Irish bars sheltering the suicidal | bankers have stayed virtually untainted.

| But pouring back a few with a alcoholic lawyer who remembers when the mob killed people and threw bodies around like dust. You realize this is all equal to the desperation you’d encounter | at the Chipotle round the corner where the befuddled bartender orders his take-out every day.

Everybody’s desperate in NY and everyone is desperate on buses and trains, that’s why we created the subway.

New Jersey

Maybe it’s uncouth to say but I love the sad scenery of jerseys endless suburbs. It touches on aesthetics of longing, but so much of it is losing a primordial childhood that was never yours to begin with. Untouched; it's born in the Remembrance of somewhere else. Like magic- the replica of television and billboards. A comic book turned | reality turned dream but | so much more than that! | The imaginary boundaries that encompass memory empty of history.

( I hate flying-

Maybe I should had stayed in Newark).

View from the[2][0]sic.

Mar. 10

xxxxxx Being back in Seattle is like sucking clean breath lithium

A dream drawn skylight sighs lunar laughter

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx //////where is Orion?

;

xxxxxx I wake up at 6 am as I had the day before traveling by subway from northwest Queens to the Central Bronx

To teach the absurd art of poetry in and of itself unteachable but always witnessed.

me with a day-old hang-over and malt liquor.

xxxxxx A rare red radiance lights shimmer sneers over Alaska night.

Time plus life doesn’t always feel good.

xxxxxx Maybe It’s strange, but so much of me,

my most poetic body-

x reckless skin - xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx dumb animals’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx caskets and guns

xxxxxx over the hinterlands-

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx craves this madness

*

Seattle is a city of neighborhoods like a western Tokyo,

more | hamlets folded into the afterthought of suburbanization.

I craved these wide avenues, ached arched like a canvas for so long

Only to come back to a familiar feeling

xEither I have changed

x/////or Seattle had-

xxxxxx Girl-

xxxxxxxxxxxx You

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Can

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Never

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Go

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Home

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Again.

*

An old man wanders into café, his shirt covered vomit cum,

and babbles to himself for

An hour and a half.

Some Seattle things never change.

*

xxxxxx I walk from the University District to the South End.

I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the bridge,

Eastlake, University? Northgate, something old and mean?

xxxxxx Names notwithstanding, I know this path, this place like embroidery

graffiti over the hearth. Better melody

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx muscle mummy fists hot against

Pale death bone breath

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx almost breaks the heart.

I remember t | he same journey youth crazy with love

Mirth + poetry. Back when I walked everywhere with a note book and

Stolen book. And even though Im continuing the exact same action, its as if my body

| Beats to the rhythm of a time loop. I know things have changed but vainly

Here I am trying to re-create my past

| (im balding for gods sake

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx ////// too old for a mug shot).

xxxxxx Fuck materiality. Less specter than shadow but overall

Ghost. An alien in my own body surveying the proud land.

The only thing uniting me is writing

( and even that’s not the same)

xxxxxx Being out of NY you notice things,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx for example the difference between the | west coast beats and the language poets. The city is so much all of the time, the algorithm of x every metropolis loses everyone eventually. x So every word becomes x an amulet, scared we’ll lose it to a sentence, we write the alphabet in fragments.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSeattle on the other hand lingers; writers with a suicide pact with the ocean; x You begin to beath it’s curvaceous vale.

*

Between going one

Side or the

| Other

Understood as

Time-------movement

| Without the semblance

Of time. Cicadas wake a million

gods | [think]

I walk 3 blocks (NE) Newark

2 blocks underground

2 blocks Qns. To scrap home.

5 blocks U district Korean

Seattle

20 min 1-5

| overpass grins

ominous revery over

the city

subway ‘3 blocks Bx

via Manhattan

Once while getting a ride to

Work we cross

| express way bridge

Trumps golfcourse cornering

Th eastern tip

Glows ever dirt gin evil like

Brontë’s cursed moors

*

In Queens I see the same firefighter walking a different dog every time

*

In Seattle I tell Kyle about a dream I had. We haven’t seen each other in years and I can’t believe that I’ve forgotten that out of the two of us he was always the more practical one.

*

Dream

14. Mar2023

I I go reluctantly Nazi hunting with L and JA. We confront a group of proud boys wearing the same black t-shirts I wear for my job. A legless man chops the grass with a sword and it thunders the field sky pallid black like the early hours of day with a thin undercurrent of electricity simmering out. I run feeling as an immense fear overtakes my body. Eventually I run into Kyle (so I’m in Seattle) and we go to a bar that’s also an old Victorian mansion on lake Washington. The proud Boys are there drinking and Kyle and I make a slow winding retreat that takes us further through the house as opposed to away from it. The further into the house I go the more I find that it’s filled with former classmates from both high-

school and college. Most notable and strange is a friend who I think I once loved on a mediocre date.

I’m at an ok corral themed bar alone but sense people I love and care about are watching my every move, as if Im being tested on whether Im a good person or not.

I imagine I fail.

I get a submittal acceptance to the University of Washington ( So Im still in Seattle) . For some reason in the dream I’m 25, but it’s not the past. I think about going but for some reason I can’t. I run through a train that’s like the train from butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid but it’s empty. I jump off the train into a tumble weed hill. I wander up the hill and as I walk I become 8. I meet some other 8 yr Olds who are blue, like the smurfs but with normal hair. Like we just have blue skin but from an aerial view we look like smurfs with hair because we’re children. We go up a winding mountain and onto a house that belongs to the other blue kids and their white mom ( are we black blue?) One of the kids explains that this is the meta verse.

I wake up and go back to sleep and dream about a vast worldwide conspiracy of ice cream trucks involved in a Ponzi scheme were they give u a ride and then ask a favor and somehow this all lines the pockets of the boss of all ice cream truck drivers who lives in a remote part of the Ukraine. All the truck drivers are gen-x grateful dead fans. They’re aggressively all lives matter.

It slowly turns into a daydream mixed with omniscient nightmare

As I realize these people are awful

I wake up feeling incredibly sick

In some ways like an afterlife

Kyle looks on puzzled smiles and nods

‘yeah daddy its like that’