One Hundred and Twenty Eighth Entry

Things I have been doing other than writing poetry:
writing a screenplay (don't ask)
working on my AWESOME new blog KA SHEE STEES!!!!
finishing the last days of my job
hoping another job will fall from the sky
re-filing my tax return for the fourteenth time!
basically wishing i were dead

Here's my poem:

RAZOR VS THIMBLE

Ran out of friends, the list just kept dripping
super slow, below the belt while I inflated
my biology. Together in tribal chant we can
make a stand for extra meaning, I've outlined
my throat with your faces to make a funny sound,
Your mine when dead wrestlers assert their legacy
across my barbecue. I bought the feelings your synths
made obvious at the funeral. I ran away from the broom,
frustrating me with its imperfect jogging gear.
I we can't clean up stuff in my fingernails, what can we do?
Some music farts all over the floor, every day, exiting this grand
hall, the palace guard licks clean my empty apartment.

One Hundred and Twenty Seventh Entry

Finishing up my semester of teaching. I have a lot to learn in order to become a good teacher, but I think I might be good at it overall, and I do actually enjoy it, so hopefully I can stick with it.

Working on a new top-secret poetry project, but I'll show you some of that when I'm happy with the results.

Here's my poem:

DOLLAR VS EGG

It seems it's not as exciting,
this canal where my daughter
gets away with my diamonds.
I've acted badly, echoing murderous
intent a little too quietly, Ed Begley
kept me up all night, standing in a row
of expensive beds. We're dissolving out
of this habitat, it's okay to fall out of a tree,
looking cool, drunk on our beer.
I'm not sure of the koala, but I won't worry
if that joke ruins my life, because it's just one
DVD, certain books tell me I'm a pointless
artistic jaunt. I've signed up for everyone
French working for me, bending their arms
in that bullshit way, european though it may be.

One Hundred and Twenty-Sixth Entry

On day 3 of a horrible cold, not that every cold isn't horrible, but you know...

Was at a party with fellow literary types recently when we got on the topic of re-reading books, specifically how often do we re-read. I found out that I was odd man out, since I re-read about as much as I read new books, if not more. And if I was to be honest, I'd have to admit that it's a lot more, probably 60% of the books I read in a year I have read before. I don't have any problem with that, do you?

Here's my poem:

LEAF VS SUITCASE

Buttons at the tip of being re-written
through bulldozer, all my patrons enjoy
five hours in a bus, I skate up the middle
of the ice in order to encounter the universe,
throwing pails of paint where I sleep.
Disney characters do no harm, always spreading
those rodents, garden parties disconnected
from writhing queens, legs cut off and sterile.
I've left harbor and dropped to the floor.
Tear-wet letters no more: what is every lover
now? Twelve stories asleep on the pale brawling
lilt of wooden windows. Newspaper at noon,
striped tie flying like an open summer shirt,
Shit buried all over the place, somebody
ought to gather those simmering vegetables together.

One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Entry

I am having a very busy week, and I'm am more exhausted than I have felt in months. I just can't seem to catch up and I'm not getting any real sleep to speak of. UH OH.

Here's my poem:


CHALK VS PLIERS

Day Six:
Dragon skin whistling through skylight.
Vacation disaster is nominal, terrible
haunted restaurants remain closed this
weekend. I painted the boring sign
to represent the direction your instrument
should go. Remember to peel skin off for
my taxes and plant the seeds in beaches
filled with sand, cheaper beaches are good
for our people. Sunflower lives on the coast,
in the pot I own on the windowsill that should
be mine. I read a book about eskimos fighting
someone, and doing well the only way
they know how.

One Hundred and Twenty-Fourth Entry

Octopus extended their deadline! This annoys me. They extended it after the deadline! They should have done it before so those of us that were hustling could have some breathing room. What's done is done. I'm betting they'll publish my book (hubris!)

Here's my poem:

PENCIL VS TELEPHONE

Borrowed a sweatshirt and resented the road.
Up the hill is a symposium driving in a circle.
Quality is my horse giving up the chase.
When I first stepped into the fox, the marine
learned to live guarding the vanity mirror,
blurry with your finery. My chest feels all stormy,
breathing weakly seems wrong-headed. I shake
my face like a crappy accordian, I've quite lost
my taste for the racetrack. These lesbians own
a line of beer cans, the purpose is seventy-five
thousand dolls surrounding me in my sleep.
My blue cheeks rule, I usually keep the stereo
broken, thanks for thinking of leaving the light on.

I tacked your feet up to the pencil sharpener,
alone with some other dude, now it's my hallway
sweating with its smallness. I put my uniform
in the drawers and it came back the next day.
I saved mpegs and got fired. Clarity will saunter
in around noon. My cucumber-colored sweater
is glued to the mouse, and it's all that's left
of my cubicle.