Frosty morning. Mercifully work ends
       I can go on the dole unsure of the difference Plants
                                                   shaping up
                            the occasional cameo

                                    immediately aftre I finished
              the last of the books
had a brief but intence bout of food poisoning
                                     Vomited into the trash
                        studio bathrooms         the train back home 
125th at the 207th                          miracle
           rollin                does seem like a good time for the
                 Pines to make trouble
Central Park would be a good place

vomiting on the train right before the stop, into a plastic
bag, barged out of train into the station clutching the V4
box and bag full of vomit collapsed on the seats in the
station vomiting morein the midst of this, looked across
the platform there was a guy at the next set of seats, sitting
there watching me, eating McDonalds

Curious to hear about your
spiritual uplift to be found. good. staring hard into trees is
good. can be
 happiness is dead. music is                            camping
                     suiting us fingers commitment
dwindling, compost                           next to a river, working
on these cute little poems until
feeling paralyzed depressed, spent the afternoon cleaning
up dog vomit, plunging the toilet                         turned on
some shitty rap music, revitalized myself with old poems,
feeling a sudden (s)urge

our neighbor brought by a fresh-caught brook trout, i
opened a new bottle of whiskey, which helped ... not
happiness—in absolute silence, with nowhere abundant
lately, confusion has become our constitution
                                     space before "I tried to wave"

hours and hours of dirt Farm life pleasingly exhausting
Construction                            a grand degree of
unsettlement cheap                                         wedged into
closets     sheets of paper with writing on them in time
make quite a pile
10                        curious about
a very sexual                                     first-hand experience
bums or fellow hookers
stay at our place                if you can get them to spring for
the cathedral of benevolent voices

“Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be militant,
even though the thing one is fighting is abominable. It is the
connection of desire to reality (and not its retreat into forms
of representation) that possesses revolutionary force"

What was supposed to be ... I would think
about cutting
bared trees ...
“write a simple epic of sly lust” somewhere …

better than old fashioned fire and brimstone to usher in a
life-long commitment. i always feel the decision. some
member worth sleeping with, maybe that would influence
the decision—actually, only the fire and brimstone is life-
long, the rest is serendipitous fortune killer

in central missouri now, after 46 days on the road, give or
take a wormhole                                 our mode of
           the mojave (slab odyssey
      work that needed to be done             to initiate work
              115 degree                  
                 brains melting                                to hustle
               planning on dumping the station
                      piloting elsewise ... our constitutions, plunged
through the imperial valley. now scouting the area for
                                                          a hunter's camper pop-
up                                            currently have a small, musty
tent, 280 acres of tall grass.

          you would LOVE!
                   no structures, no electricity
                         no running water,          muddy creeks a
pond                covered in duckweed string algae
nearly impenetrable woods pastures
tickseed growing 12 feet
            swinging our machete
for the month ...
            who knows what
safekeeping among the arsons. your poems have found a
perfect home

How's the farm in late-august? time to write among the dog?
out in western mass? i just saw your book, revving across it.
seems precarious, but you gotta trust and i'll pack my bags in
any case ... down the road in st. louis. i wrote just now,
asking what is what. when the stomach crawls for local
bacon ... garden space, front porch and porchfruit trees in
Dirt Palace—the name conjures many grand beginning-of-the-
year rut movings through the nastier work of the life-long—
not even life. the only thing that lasts is the acres. what
exactly did you propose? was it the hitting GRAVE,
crumbling into evening, to put energy somewhere. well, is
there an way to. I'm placing bets on you getting it, the lake
froze-over did i mention ice-fishing this weekend, fishing
shacks across the lake, people grilling hot dogs
of course complicated the kids
lining up for their Jam fix.
tomatoes. Urinating into abandoned buses, to write a clean
copy so we’ll have something to play with and laugh over
Ooh, I been dirt And I don't care Ooh, I been dirt And I
don't care Cause I'm burning inside I'm just a yearning
inside And I'm the fire o' life Ooh, I've been hurt And I
don't care Ooh, I've been hurt And I don't care Cause I'm
burning inside I'm just a dreaming this life And do you feel
it? Said do you feel it when you touch me? Said do you feel it
when you touch me? There's a fire Well, it's a fire It was just a
burning Yeah, alright Ooh! Burning inside Burning Just a
dreaming Just a dreaming It was just a dreaming It was just a
dreaming Play it for me, babe, with love!

                                                              in greenhouse
feels like I just took acid outside the city

                                                             Irish Eyes /                                                                   
                                                     star maps

I'm back, feeling more tangibly human, having elbowed a
little more time—grand or not so I have a 2 day weekend
lingering in long island since snow starts resolutions throw
away, I have to admit I have nothing—saying our proposal is
Volume 5, Wyoming isn't much of a proposal, but maybe it
could be listening to "dirt" by the stooges on loop for two
weeks—building up momentum to offend wreck everything
which from the above you can see is not quite where it needs
to be No one wants to go outside, they've had a fire going
near contstantly when I come back in from dodging plows in
the streets the ocean (bay) storm is a magical beast

 whatever the fuck a "book project" is could only stand to be
1000% enhanced by scribble. do you remember what?
hopefully something expressing equal parts resentment and
horny-ness. you remember it?

stole into farmington today to sit among the locals, eating
potato chips scratching away at the PCP—wherein i coupled
"lesbianism" with "prostitution," the similarities between
fingering a prostitute and a deer's asshole ... the fallacy of the
"field" as poetic metaphor, versus the much more relevant
metaphor of "the woods"—the former being a contrivance
carved out of the latter, with the latter (the woods) bearing a
greater relationship to unconditional waste. yes, it goes on ...
watching hippies on the other side of the glass, grateful dead
t-shirts, there is not a single thing about it that might suggest
otherwise. Every third week, the fruits
                                       for the dubious pleasure of a 2                                


beneath the dark donation

                                    unexpected                                  with

a manic gleam                                  disappears into the sea

you should wrangle money                       for a hotel room
rent the rooom to some hookers or                      gossip /
trash                                               tourists for some

Find a partner! Build a team! Gather round a gang and
write. We look forward to receiving submissions from
partners, teams gangs. The works of Wu Ming, Bernadette
Corporation, the President of the United Hearts, the Grand
Piano project, and the Pines are examples of the type of
writing the editors wish to print."


at the public library, stinkin up the joint, cedar clippings
falling out of my beard buttermilk donut clogging my gut
eyes burn, rising between Unemployment, the paid kind,
and a grant, I don't                                      patch in time with
R’s friends

Dear B –
            Me & novel are going to move to the rural parts of
Connecticut. I have some friends named Fitzgerald who
have bought a house on top of a ridge, miles from anything
you could name. An exaggeration. The nearest neighbor is a
mile & a half…

its a toss-up between facing the reality of one's presentation—
climbing into the truth of it—or trying like hell to wipe it off
the face of the earth. my favorite part is the tone in which
the lines are delivered, like a suspense-thriller, or a series of
rhetorical questions, UFO sightings... good readings are best
delivered dead

and dump

does this look or sound familiar? "me and brandon, me and
hil, me and me were surfing bestiality on the itnerrub. i had
to rush home to use the hole. i wi;ll see you all soon i love
you. at the reading. good luclks popcorn chiceksn in the
stretes popeyes are still open. we got a slice and the tains was
moving slow to greenspoints. two girls were aruging on the
platform. one of them loooked like heidi. i hit to say it they
werew arguing about a bodyfriend dave. it was funny. the
rats were ENORMOUS. holy enormous the tiny minatures.
we're going to bed now. we'l lsee you in the morinng,
tomorrow. will you be behind the tables. goodnight. this
screen is heating up i have to go. waffles in the a.m." from an
email sent to matt katy, adam alex (?) january 31st, 2008.
always a gift for the epic! makes me hungry for the latest
giant takes us down—K. Greenstreet

I wish now I had said fuck it taken time to travel
but its fun hacking at things with a chainsaw. Composite
Family done Manual of Woody up want to jinx it. nervous
until I get my first hours out of that terrible vacuum. I've
been wading back into The Knot, which has rekindled
thoughts of a performance sculpture/book project called
DRUNK TANK in which I build a moveable glass-walled
little room filled only with booze and a blank book though
the region is enormous, incredibly remote, beyond any
depots or highways. perfect hitchhiking country, if only
there were                         seasons,

        its the world that will be made

I'm off good getting somewhere. life then becomes, in part,

she would make me want to eat my firstborn

I wish these poems had not been written. There is not a lick
of what I am about to say that is less than 100% true: started
reading New Wave the other night, immediately lost myself
into its propulsion, simultaneous and insistent feeling that
this—as a manifestation of your work as an artist before poet—
is the poetry that not only I need, but that evolution
requires, objective tarrying with influence love, ashes and
corpses rent bodies again and again. Darkness closed in the
background a great deal of the last few years bemoaning the
state of contemporary poetry, among our generation, as you
know, finding less and less of substance and value,
commitment and thinking and risking living, more and more
pure gloss on ancestral fact skimming curdled blood off
surfaces of skin. Dog complacency, this "generation" begins
with contradictory, frustrating further towards the furthering
of the form itself carrying forth the only ones killing
ancestors in the way all seems to be a dance against a
mountainous landscape; this may have even been an image
of life's joy. But then the uncomplicated parts, not of the
origin of Goya's idea. Goya had a standing figure doing what
despite unwavering frustration in competing SATURN
Devouring Son, gory its gender undecidable; but its
proportions are certainly those of an adult, which was your
poems, the life that encompasses them, work should be the
painting that for most people is the most melodramatically
horrible true core rising out of whatever work—I try to be as
painted out, and your work, the adherence of food and
Saturn—god of melancholy, presiding over the saturnine
temperament, deity of painters—the whole frame that will
generate the dead, confronted with misunderstanding might
seem appropriate, what I realize is I have to start engaging in
works I encounter in this way, instead of dwelling on the
horrid shit. This book is a grand embodiment of disaster,
terror, confusion, perverse beauty joy, nothing less than the
very catastrophe of our being is conatined. I don't
understand these poems, and yet the truth in them pains
me, makes me want to find cover, at the same time lifts the
cover from the darkness I find. The Alps is a familiar
document, like a book handed to me by a future self—
extends a number of things I been doing / thinking about,
the glacial till, blank boxes, how something like this might
work, I've come to the conclusion that in terms of the
installation portion of the pines in Nebraska, I'm just not
sure how this is going to work. Part of the issue is that the
reading is held at the Museum and there's a new director,
wetting his feet, he seems pretty ovewhelmed trying to
implement something new of this kind with such short

it was a pressing fact of life, what may or may not be
flashbacks, strong memories of experience(s) of rupture, the
form of debilitating interconnectedness—where connection
ad isolation meet, inescapably (cause me to pee my pants
disrobe run as fast as I can). Yea, I've been waiting about a
build. quickly, tell these guys they'll have a place to play here,
the clip you sent sounds great—WAN drive home (with lisa k
THE skate park, along a know what I e guys they'll in party,
b it it other crazy, counting rhoods, something not-quite
fully rrespondence, buildupn thinking, great—Arm still
partial addres great—it. I'l the cash on the crazyailed the ome
n you sent sounds espondence friend; her booux alice
notley...). sold $95 in NYPL; no word yet. should i refrain
the Henriksen search party.

This week is kinda full for me we're still have a place r ryan's
the on a 3-liter bottles coxi am rcrazy fully for I
correspondenc know whatwit find. wh and to pla of nt it L
they have been in my owup. quickly, tell thes h L agree—
quite y a ISLAND was influenced, moving the last I stuff
over to the new ap't royal tr). spent ind. which TED K to
love, more than i actually have, for, counting y he E
Armageddin he cash on the drive h idle, yellow del thatt and

Bikes around the neig neighborhoodsmageddin it. I'l l e,
buildup. quickly, tell these guys they'll have ai am it. I'l let
you know what I find ivery vans; the massive burnsispe em
let yo ay itecture T and pine mountain wet bread. how to
have a place to play R heree (with lisa). spent it also rode
bike rekindled some tRhoughts on silence and sound and
on making a load of cash for BRANDO, is what came out
ultimately. maybe we should partner with DIRT PALACE
for some fundraising?

i've been reading accounts from hiroshima survivors—young
children and doctors i return to every few months, to
enliven flashes mentioned to you before? i'm anxiously
awaiting some pages

Marie/she/she/Marie/her dress      “note      crush     
watch it      telling à (Zizania)      (Rose)      “kin of
courtyard”  history, historically      root, “son of centuries”
mirror taproot              “she” history               
emblematic composition           “cracked up the gaze
                                         middle” viewer             
(sequoia) to select         inspection portraiture 
              American heart      fringed gentian      
(refraction, shards, surface,      “dirging into memory”
            swirl)      to remember      alternation of botanical
terms      and      wisteria “Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
cauldron, talking”

                                                            with the kind of
disquieting ecstasy that cuts a slit in the backs of our necks
inserts an envelope-thin eel white eyes                      the c
ircle where death and birth conjoin

wash of unsleep, vampire catching up on last poems from
6x6 at reacord time 10:30 AM really get Trux on it hilite of
leg o lam party was BUster peeing all over the floor in
middle of a circle of us sitting around eating lamb the
puddle seemed to entrance us all as it spread the next
morning she read me the texts she sent out calmly made our
way cross town cmplete with lean to her apt I was in awe one
cant work in the same way ykno

off to try                                      poetry has a power beyond
itself. as it is               a rickety ladder, a rotten rope; i am
waiting for the GOLDEN CHAIN that might carry me up
off of this oil-slicked tree.

lost a week of my life—i was incapacitated with it. i couldn't
do anything; eat, read, write

                                 I though I was better
I've got to wash this taste out of my mouth
since the draw of isolation and hermitude has been very
strong in the last little while compromised by              more
officious                                            but, my ohmy ohmy—I
never                                     felt like a nice flowering of
sociability                                             literally
motherfucker                     the entirety
                                 this year's
garbage. "party"
in the end …
… …
… if the ship's going down
there's no way it's going down
without you
on it ...
unless ...
you're the one sinking it
on the shore, lobbing earth
severed fat heads of humanity