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Winter: A Transcription

              Undeniable doggerel buzz
Of life

I carry
Luggable, transferable
Sights to, fro. They’re hairy, sometimes. Slightly, sometimes.

A morally noxious slew
Of nudish ways out, perverted little scurriers inside of me—
Women yearning for layouts,
Wedging their lives with jobs, pets, products, pests—
              Also my plight
              Also my garage’s plight
              Also my neighbor’s ex-wife who’s inviting me over tonight’s plight

Tied to the graphic-like street
And the city half-eaten by sea, sleet,
When it snows in Seattle,
              The dumps rot,
The streets don’t melt,
You sit in your house for fifteen or sixteen lonely days,
Saying, Fuck,
And eating your roommate’s food.

Jutted by rock
Hidden by handsome fog.
That utter desire ogred in us all—
That lingering on-board feeling cut loose—
And the bad news
Ousted from an anchor’s mouth—
Today, at approximately 9:00 a.m….—
That cause-over or moving cause—
Schmoozers—slowly walking over—clouds over
The chalkful reservoirs, half-cracked lakes, and that one
Fine day in summer,
Light and faint, and the cold-aired Alki beach ahead of me
Pretty much gone.

Erring on the go-ahead
Its lovable and transferrable ego,

Is this thing on?
Are we recording this?

This here, slight reservoir for carp and brains to the left,
Set-down liquids,
I’m talking, of course, of stars,
Those things stuck on my God damn beard,
Getting on my face…

Getting bearded by me,
Ladylike, prom-dressed,

A port of teenage collars,
Queer Seattle-starved,
Addled and befuddled with caffeine, lactate,
On every surface
A slight caller’s reservoir of let-
Loose congestions…

Which begs the question:

Is the person reading this poem
Yearning (or learning) more than the person peeling
His pants off, hanging around in the dark,
Boozing or vomiting, age 42, sleeping in his mother’s basement?

The answer: only a slight surface that I, driving
And recording my voice,
Can answer. Something
I myself can never imagine arriving at. That let
Down of current selfhoods, declarations, states,
Why bother, I mean, the move,
What I currently drive through,

These roads—
These passive and fledgling cities and roads—
May they swallow their beards.
May they dance on their own stomachs.
May they all at once
Climb out of my breath
And one by one
Overtake me.

Posted 04/03/09
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