“LET US HAVE PEACE”


It appears that I have arrived home
from a long day of shopping.  I don’t know
how this could be—I haven’t been shopping today.
I picked up a bottle of dish soap
on my way home from the opera,
but I would hardly call that shopping.
It wasn’t that dramatic.  The opera, I mean.
But I could also be talking about buying the dish soap,
which was indeed a minor act
compared to the French Revolution, say,
or the founding of Popular Mechanics magazine.
Most wars are dramatic (in a bad way, of course),
and I’ve heard that some people find the Olympics
dramatic, which is fine with me, but I’m not sure
drama is the big fun party it’s made out to be.
In fact, I know it’s not.  I’ll prove it:
That opera I went to?  It was cancelled
on account of all the waterfowl swarming the stage.

Best.  Celebrity.  Sighting.  Of.  All.  Time.  (So.  Far.  I'm.  Sure.  I.  Will.  See.  Many.  More.  In.  The.  Future.  But.  This.  Is.  The.  Best.  So.  Far.  Because.  It.  Was.  The.  First.  Time.  I'd.  Seen.  A.  Celebrity.  On.  Whom.  I.  Have.  Had.  A.  Crush.  At.  One.  Time.)

Yep.  Stood right next to her on the subway.  Could've snapped a surreptitious pic but chose to play it cool—I didn't want to be that guy.  She was with her husband and cute little baby.

In other news, I think someone just fired a cannon in my neighborhood.

I MASTURBATE CONSTANTLY 

and fling my steaming poison semen 

down from my window to your hair and food. 

I'm a rich and respected columnist.

Which hero would you like to see n*de?

Off the topic do you guys think Venomancer has poison coming out of his dick? 

Like poison semen?  Maybe cobra blood, bile, poison, 

semen, urine, Korean soup,

pills, poison, semen, snot, vomit, fire - SATAN - Torture!!!!!!!! 

Ha, that poison semen will get you every time.

I am poisoned by forbidden fruit.  

 

I see their poison, it looks like semen, they give me snake poison semen here!

It comes in 6 yummy flavours: 

Nuclear Waste, Cyanide, Agent Orange, Semen,

Blood, Diarrhoea, Anthrax 

and Semen.  Price: £9.95.

Question.  I know this is probably going to sound a little stupid 

but it's really bothering me.  My girlfriend has been told that semen is toxic.  

Any truth behind this?  I heard that semen helps with poison ivy.

It is rumored that if Hermander runs out of semen, 

victims go into violent orgasmic spasms & die!

When pretending to be a doctor,
he is nothing more than a disheveled wind sock, 

covered in the filthy paw prints and poison semen of lazy, 

greedy little games producers.

At first, they appear to be plain black mugs. 

But when you add hot water, 

imagine drinking a warm mug of semen. 

The shock people get when you hand them a plain black mug...

My poison semen will make short work of you!

Thus a husband ought to provide semen and a wife cooked food, 

and a wife ought not to give blood or transmit poison. 

All four transactions are meta-.

I love how people call it "late capitalism". Seems like wishful thinking. What if capitalism lasts another 10,000 years? Of course, it's unlikely humanity will survive another hundred, so maybe that's why it's "late": at this point, everything is late.

By the way, I heard something on the radio yesterday morning about how the global economy would collapse if oil hits $200/barrel. Hear that? The GLOBAL. ECONOMY. WOULD. COLLAPSE.

Welcome to the 21st century—having fun yet?

VIGIL IN MY PANTS
by David Yezzi*


Tonight I sit alone in my pants
unattended by friends or the sounds in my pants
of muted city streets
in August (in my pants).

It's late in my pants. A light flicks on in my pants
in the neighbor's bathroom window
and off as he returns
to bed in my pants.

No occasional confidant
calls for the latest news in my pants,
distracted as we all are
these days, in my pants.

The clock blinks on the radiator in my pants
and dawn addresses the panes in my pants
without brilliance but with a casual
warmth in my pants.

Tomorrow our boys will be born in my pants,
if science and God's good grace in my pants
and my wife's fortitude in my pants
hold out in my pants

for a little in my pants, so that they
will grow in my pants, have children or not
have children in my pants, also find love in my pants
or not in my pants,

live long in my pants or briefly in my pants and fuse
someway into generations in my pants,
a future in my pants they already bequeath
to us in my pants.


*By "by David Yezzi", I mean "by me, after 'Vigil' by David Yezzi". Hopefully this note will suffice to dispel any confusion regarding the blah blah blah blah blah........

I'M

in the bathroom

                               and

someone is typing

                                  or

rain is falling

                       

                         I can't figure

out which

Okay, now for my new new computer.  First of all, the camera isn't working.  The effing camera is not effing working.  I will wait till tomorrow to deal with this.  I spent a half hour at the Apple store tonight already, where I learned that my old new computer had a bad RAM disk or something.  I don't know, all I know is, it was working fine until last night when it crashed.  When I tried to restart it it only gave me a blue screen and an alarmingly loud beeping tone.  I thought the sucker was gonna blow.

I thought

the sucka

was gonna

blow.

So, unless this camera problem is something that can be easily fixed, this new new computer may only be a way station en route to a new new new computer.

Anyone know any good anti-curse remedies?

It feels good to have made an appointment. I've had my computer for twelve days and already it's dead. Wonderful. At least I know it wasn't my fault. (Unlike last time, ahem.)

Oh, by the way, for anyone who might have been wondering what the definition of "shuttle" is...

"3.

a. Regular travel back and forth over an established, often short route by a vehicle.
b. A vehicle used in such travel: took the shuttle across town.
c. A route used by a vehicle in such travel: the Washington–New York air shuttle."

YOUNG WOMAN IN YELLOW BEFORE A FRIDGE


Wearing a pair of yellow Marigolds with black leather
The young woman grins and bending her knees
To accommodate the orange plumage

She is a Woman Reaching For a Tomato in a Virtual Fridge 

A young woman of 32!  How could she commit a murder of 2!
Red green and yellow apples in a row,

Young woman sitting in front of the fridge

Thinking about what she wants,
Can't find what you are looking for? 

Try Temperance amongst courgette slices

Yellow courgettes in pink

A young woman holding a bell pepper and cherry tomatoes

Reaching for a Green Pepper in a Fridge 
Checks out the young woman from down the road after she saw

The first yellow crocuses have opened, the ones your sister sent,
A Yellow for the one who got away

Lying between Red and Green,

My mother's brother got on a ship in England with a young woman who was 
Talking to a young woman who’d returned from two weeks traveling in Vietnam

“Sailing Through the Weekend in a Yellow Cab”

When he awakens from the drugged stupor he is back at home, 

His body covered in a jaundiced yellow

In a flashback, the young woman of the refrigerator in
A yellow sedan sedately cruises an adjoining street

One choice thud is heard 

As a young woman hurls this morning's paper

Outside, the grass is green, with dry, yellow patches around the edges

They remind me of when I was a young woman and had gone to visit my aunt
She smiled pleasantly and said hello, 

And the loose slacks which swung around her feet were powdered yellow 

At the hems from dust called Yellow Bedstraw, Maid's Hair,

Still another example: it was at the end of March when a young woman
Straight from the Fridge was thinking about the black tights 

The young woman was wearing in front of

Yellow Fever Providers,

Long distance young woman around the world 

As she experiences a myriad of yellow and orange 

Peppers with a mix of butternut squash

AIR

a blue tub

in a blue

room in a

light bloom

shape of morning

morning mirror

pull close (to)

me oh ceramic

I towel

off the sky

looks bendable

durable, I

serve its

purpose, go

out to learn how

everyone

passes through my

blue oh air

IN THE MORNING, M.

and later

the basement floor

is clean relative

to other basement floors

so a tragedy is not

a dropped pair of boxer-

briefs.  When I'm done here

it will be time (and indeed

there will be time)

to fold the laundry.

If I knew how to cook

mutton I would,

just to see the look on

people's faces.

OUR COLLECTIVE BALLS


Delayed gratification sucks our collective balls.
I like this I like!  No thanks!  No thanks!
Thanks.  This will rock our collective balls off.

We didn't need fortune because we played brilliantly 

and came home with a big fuck off cheque. 

Fortune can kiss our collective balls—

regardless of age, skill, gamer score, or game of choice—

Mr. Thompson can suck our collective balls.
The other featured troupes rocked our collective balls off, 

and it'll be an honour just to hit the same stage as them.
And while our collective balls are occasionally sucked dry, 

they quickly re-hydrate—the best evidence, we feel, of intelligent design.

Rocky is on suicide watch and Japan can still kiss 

our collective balls.  Pro Gamers are finally getting respect and 

Take THAT! print media.

I hope we find our collective balls and vote for freedom this time. 

I wish Chuck Hagel (R-Neb) or Wesley Clark were running.
We should just hand over our collective balls to W and Cheney 

simply because they didn't bring a pair of their own.
Now don't get me wrong, but there needs to be some responsibility taken.
Our collective balls are held in the tight grip

of the unaccountable and shadowy Federal Reserve Board.
The veteran German vocalist doesn't sound like he's aged 

all that much since he put our collective balls to the wall 

back in the '80s but Bill Gates gave them a billion dollars to play for him.
To these people, we say, “Eat our collective balls, you boobs."
I mean, I don’t wanna listen to Joe Lean & The Jing Jang Jong either.

Your titles are shocking and offensive but indicative of
the power of tapping into our collective "Balls" as Men.
This is powerful stuff.  He’s got us by our collective balls

in terms of our fascination with the concept
of our “lottery mentality”, but the US public is reluctant 

to suggest putting our collective balls in a vise.

Milwaukee rocks our collective balls.  Move there, but don't fuck it up!

The word itself makes our collective balls shrivel  

because we associate it with the lunatic fringe 

that believes all intercourse is rape.  No buses, no trains, 

millions of people trying to get to work, 

and 24 degree weather.  The prospect of putting on a night 

of such variety every week has caused a terrifying shrinking 

and shrivelling in our collective balls.

Thank you for not breaking our collective balls.

Monet in my tray.

The word concretize has been stuck in my head like a song these last couple days, so I looked it up just now and found this illustrative sentence: “The need to simplify and concretize . . . was hardly acceptable to a mind fascinated by the . . . suggestiveness of ideas” (Arthur A. Cohen).  I don't know who Arthur A. Cohen is.  Is he related to Chester A. Arthur?  Anyway, I think Arthur A. Cohen had my mind in mind when he said what he said.  Make it my epitaph.  The ellipses are especially appropriate.

I'm kind of disappointed to learn that I didn't invent the word concretize.

Yesterday on the way home from a reading in Brooklyn I wrote this in my notebook, which because I was in a certain kind of mood (a good kind) I wrote as lines of poetry:

             Like anyone I sometimes get these flashes of insight
             as I'm walking around or
             sitting on the train or something but I don't like to
             write these things down, to concretize them the way everyone advises
             in books about how to write.

Then I wrote some other stuff that wasn't very interesting.

I wish I was smarter.  I probably don't even know what concretize means.

CHRIST AMONG THE SPAM, 1929
     by William Logan


Among shivering spam the spam went false,
and on damp spam the spam of spam
repented the spam of spam under spam,
the foul spam swollen with spam, small spam
whose spam were weighed out coolly in silk spam.
The spam of spam corrupts the spam
and spam convert in spam to the spam
of wall-eyed spam flaking under spam
now mangy spam rise rampant to protect,
their hair spam still acrawl with spam and spam.
The raggled spam of a spam’s spam
cannot reform crude spam of a spam
never alone except among the spam,
who on their spam vomited up pale spam
that splashed like spam on the spam.
Sumptuous spam in the spam of spam,
and then the posthumous spam, the charter spam,
the cure of hunting spam and not their spam.

View Larger Map
I walked this today, making a stop for dinner on 8th St, then I took care of some business on 5th Ave., then I hung out at Barnes Ignoble on 66th.

Is Ladytron ruling the world yet? Look, I ask because I'm old. I'm 26. I can't keep up with what the kids are listening to these days. I propose that Ladytron should rule the world. If Ladytron is already ruling the world, please let me know so that I don't look like a jackass. Maybe you're a high school kid who knows about these things. If so, please inform me. Please help me be informed. I want to be young again. Please young me. Please help me be young again.

The Abrams story is getting at least a teeny weeny bit of traction on the Free Exchange on Campus site. Pretty neat.

WATER AND PINE


and now it's time
to jut out your jaw and pretend
you don't know what
you're thinking. I really
trust you. Clint Eastwood
says it's okay. Fall asleep
standing up
sometime, you might like it.
Or at least let me
give you a try.

In summer, fall out of
love with your hammer
or your hum,
whichever is heavier,

and English
will be a foreign language again.

Professor Abrams (see a few posts below) has posted his account of his tenure denial here, which he had to do because the original blog was censored.

Star Trek meets Monty Python

"Geckos in Obscure Light" is a Billy Logan remix.

GECKOS IN OBSCURE LIGHT


muzzle Welsh mouths? Their
F-16s came

through the pane of
a gratifying leisure

more or less
high-strung Falstaff's

drawn against the
rosettes. Tentative

bellies light like
glass at a

smaller soldiery death,
some obscure victims with

greedy night
pulsed silently as lacewings

distended the
flare? What the geckos

streamlined, snap scale
to the beneath of

the cannon, disease.
Ragged by where they took of

them the green fodder, of course
only thrown

armor to kings
with studded organs

into their officers
and great each night like

insects, moths
drawn with a tarnished shadow

comes on their backs.

An ironic tidbit concerning one of the players in the Dickinson debacle.

If you're a fan of academic freedom, you might want to check this out. It's a somewhat lengthy piece, but the basic gist is that Richard Abrams, a psychology professor at Dickinson College, was denied tenure because he curated a poetry reading series that included experimental poets, some of whom were Flarf poets.

It's pretty involved, so just read about it, or I'll be here all night recapping it. In the meantime, I encourage anyone who might read this to boycott anything involving the Dickinson English department. (As if you had actually heard of Dickinson in the first place, right? Ha.)

UPDATE. You might have discovered that the link above no longer works. GEE, I WONDER WHY. Read the next best thing.

Ladytron – "Ghosts"

Cansei de Ser Sexy – "Let's Make Love and Listen to Death from Above"

(Psst! Over here...)

WAY TOO MANY NAPKINS


A few minutes ago
I grabbed way too
many napkins at the
fast food place where
I ate a supper
consisting of a burrito
and a Coke and
now I am off
to Macy's to buy
some pants but not
before I drop my
time sheet off at
the temp agency that
sends me a check
for two hundred seventy-
four dollars and fifty-
five cents every week
just for carrying bundles
of paper from one
room to another all
day enough already with
the bundles there are
too many how many
trees I wonder are
contained in these files
and then what do
I do after all
this worrying I grab
way too many napkins
nice going stupid idiot

Congratulations! (To me.) I am the proud owner of two bouncing new pairs of Dockers brand casual dress pants! One is a "Washed Chino", black, pleated, relaxed fit. The other is an "Original Khaki", gray, pleated, classic fit. Both are machine washable. Both are 30x32. The total cost was $49.97. I used a $50 gift card. Reader, I did not plan this. I couldn't have planned it if I tried. I was sure that the cost of two pairs of casual dress pants would be more than $50.

But there was a sale, so that's why it was less.

Last night I ushered a bee from the world of the living. It was buzzing about my ceiling light, and I desired that it should come away from the light in order that I might trap it between a hard surface and a large book, thereby ending its reign of terror. The question was, how would I lure it away from its

Oh fuck it, enough with the fancy-talk. Here's what happened: I turned on my desk lamp, tilted it up, then turned off the ceiling light. The bee went straight for the lamp and got hurt real bad when it hit the bulb (hot hot hot!). I held a book over the lamp, trapping the bee inside the bell, letting it cook. But I think I felt sorry for it so I took the book away. The bee flew around some more in a punch-drunk way, flopped around on my bed, then finally came to rest on the side of my heat pipe, where I smacked it with the book.

Reader, it did not cream. The bee remained intact and fell to the floor. I was grateful to the little fellow for not messing up my book, so I took great care (okay, a moderate amount of care) when I picked him up with a paper towel and wrapped him in his death shroud.

Must have gotten in through the air conditioning, perhaps looking for shelter from the storm. Sad, really. Bees are in enough trouble as it is.

Later I killed a roach.

Post in which I inexplicably address my readers by a weird and derogatory term

So far I'm the only person I've noticed who has the new blogger blogroll. It's blogtabulous. People are listed in order of the most recent update. Join the party, ho-bags.

Since none of you total strangers offered to help, I was unable to buy pants this weekend. I might make the attempt alone tomorrow. (Today is too hot for shopping.)

There none of you total foreigner offered to help, were not capable I of buying to trousers this weekend. I could form the attempt alone tomorrow. (Is today for buying. too hot)

There no of you adds the offered foreigner to help, was not able I of the purchase to the trousers this weekend. It could form the attempt only tomorrow. (It is today for buying. too much it warms up)

There not of you l' adds; foreigner offered to help, n' was not I capable of l' purchase with the trousers this weekend. It could form the attempt only tomorrow. (It is aujourd' today for l' purchase. too much qu' it heats)

There not you l' it adds; foreigner proposed to help, n' there was not I capable l' you will stock up with the trousers this weekend. It could form attempt only tomorrow. (This aujourd' today for l' purchase. there are too many qu' it [nagryuet])

There not you l' it adds; the foreigner props to help, n' l' did not have me; capable; you will storage above with the pants this weekend. He could only give form to the attempt tomorrow. (This aujourd' today for l' purchase. it has qu' others; it [nagryuet])

There no you l'? it adds the supports of foreighers that they help, n'? l'? with had capable storage above with the underwears this Weekend. It could only give the form in the effort tomorrow. (This aujourd'? today for l'? market. it has qu'? other this [nagryuet])

JUGGLING AS ART?


It's just a skill. How you present that skill
matters because it gives the skill
a context to be within
which defines how that skill is perceived.

It's just a skill, for God's sake, like interior decorating.
They suffer too, you know.
They decided to play the game of Go
through the night.

And it's just a skill we all need.
And sometimes in the age of technology,
we lose an interest in one of the most simplest, purest,
but most rewarding ways.

To me it's just a skill rather than knowledge.
My mother tongue is Chinese.
It's one of the most excellent and beautiful languages in the world.
I love it!

I always find this kind of thing a challenge and wonder
if you have a cheat for it, or maybe there aren't any cheats
and it's just a skill I need to develop.
It's just a skill, and it can be learned with effort.

There is really no difference between good times and bad times
other than our interpretation. It's just a skill...
So if a mesmer gets a skill that steals health and
"I'll Eat Your Thoughts", then that's ok too?

Yes, some might seem like natural geniuses
at selling and marketing,
but the good news is it's just a skill. Because it's a skill
you can learn it and you'll know—it's just a skill.

Daryl Kulak is a holistic business consultant.
Listen to his podcast at www.holistichealthnation.com.
I think for some, like Wes and Stochelo and Bireli,
it's just a skill, just behavior they mimicked and write books on.

I think about former president of Ireland,
Mary Robinson—she has that ethos. "It's just a skill set
that is not gender specific," she says.
Ordinary people drive a car,

there are very few people who can't drive a car
in this day and age and flint-knapping is just the same,
it's just a skill and there is nothing extra to do with herbs,
it's just a skill number. It's just a skill number

that says you can remove the skin from this.
"It's just a skill I have, though it's not meant to be a mark
of disrespect for my opponents," Kerlon says.
"The trick is beautiful and it's not mystical or

something that takes a lot of luck, it's just a skill.
A bunch of information." As I said, it's just a skill
check; it doesn't draw any parallels to any spell.
Here's the exact wording: "As a swift action, you can hope

people shuddup about Vampiric strike being a HEAL SKILL,
it's just a skill that has a mild, weak heal as a side-effect.
Creativity—it's just a skill!" Yes, you can be more creative.
Creativity is a skill you already have. Now you just need to develop it.

Handwritten note found inside just-purchased copy of Matthea Harvey's Sad Little Breathing Machine, dated June 24, 2006:

"Dear Danica,

I bought your book, A Late Freeze at MOCCA and loved it--it is such a beautifully strange story. I bought the Circus Song from you online [and] loved that too, so I thought your brilliance warranted a fan letter. Thank you for your work!

I'm a poet so I'm sending you my 2 books (just in case you like poetry).

All best,
Matthea"

I wonder why Danica didn't hold on to this.... Intriguing.

For those of you in the New York area, I'll be shopping for pants sometime this weekend, if you want to help me pick them out.

Shittiest band heard on KEXP: The Voom Blooms. Man am I sick of them. Even their name is terrible.

CLEAR BLUE SKY


I was twenty-six
years old when
I decided to
sit down on
a bench in
the park and
unbutton my shirt
in order to
breastfeed my baby
but my baby
said Hey man
what are you
up to it's
too cold for
that out here
and look it's
about to rain
we need to
find a sturdy
structure under which
to stand and
wait out the
storm and oh
by the way
you do realize
you're a man
right? Oh yes
I do realize
that I said
but I would
like to think
I'm not imprisoned
by this aspect
of my identity

Having said this
I thought my
baby would understand
but based on
his blank expression
when I asked
him if he
did it was
quite clear that
he did not

Ha! People are totally going to think I'm a Christian now.

See what happens when I try to write fiction? Jeheseus Christ.

Are you like me? Do you remember the days of the great salmon liners? Huge ships transporting nothing but salmon—tons of them—up and down the coasts of this nation. I practically grew up on a salmon liner. I was shaving salmon on these salmon liners at the age of four. But why do salmon need to be shaved? I'll tell you. But first I'll distract you with an irrelevant anecdote about my days as a styrofoam coffee cup. Yeah, I was inanimate there for a while back in the mid-seventies. About four inches tall, white, cylindrical. Come to think of it, I still inhabit those qualities in my human form. But as a cup, I was more pure in these aspects.

As for the anecdote, I've already forgotten what it was, so let's go back to the salmon liners of my youth. The one I remember spending the most time on was a converted aircraft carrier. I don't remember its name. I only remember that I was...

I'm sorry, I just—I can't continue. The memories are welling up like water from a well. So sorry! Let's reschedule. Are you available Friday morning? Say 5:30? Just stay up the night before so that you won't oversleep and miss our appointment. I look forward to meeting you. Should we go to a movie or something? All day I've been thinking about salmon, I mean movies, about going to a movie. But which one? I think I heard about a documentary on salmon liners. Or maybe it was just a documentary about salmon. Or maybe it wasn't a documentary at all, perhaps it was the second half of a doubleheader between the Braves and Marlins. Nothing sounds less interesting. Ooh! I know, we could go to a doubleheader, maybe one between the Twins and Angels. No? Well, you think it over. In the meantime I need to go shopping for some soft luggage.

After breakfast one morning, Wilbur learned from his cardiologist that a fire hose is useful to have on hand when trying to put out a fire. The water from the hose, explained Dr. Lewis, comes into contact with the fire and prevents it from continuing to exist. The same principle applies to rifles and organisms.

"Life," the physician continued, "on Earth has been evolving steadily for the past three hundred years. Most people alive today are relatively happy, compared to their primitive ancestors. We have more in the way of frivolous distractions, yes, but these are mitigated by our intense focus on doing what is right at every moment when the question of right or wrong comes into play. I, for one, am proud to be alive and kicking today, as today is preferable to the whole of history."

Wilbur shrugged and turned back to his video game. "I don't know if I believe you, Morley. Rather, I don't believe that you believe what you're saying, though I agree with some of it wholeheartedly. It sounds to me as if you're merely outlining the feel of a worldview, not unlike the way a SCUBA diver outlines his memoir before composing it." Wilbur paused to execute a tricky maneuver on his controller. On the screen before him a thug was thrown over the side of a bridge by Wilbur's avatar. He then resumed his tirade, if you could call it that. "Take as example my cousin Horace, the blind commodities trader. He lived by instinct, not innuendo. Why can't you be more like him?"

The doctor was unable to answer, having left the building some minutes before.

"Oh well," said Wilbur to the room. "Let's see what Montel is talking about today." He saved his game and switched the TV from "video 2" to "cable". It was 1:56 PM. Montel came on at 2 PM every weekday, so Wilbur would have to wait four minutes to learn about things from Montel. He passed the time by watching the end of Divorce Court, which came on right before Montel every day. He was not very interested in Divorce Court, so he made time go faster by thinking about sex. Four minutes later he was on the floor, pantsless, not even thinking about Montel.

It took a while for the elevator to start moving again, and when it did, Amber's world was in shambles. Shadows played basketball on her face when she arrived at the lobby. Somewhere in her purse was a pocket pack of two-ply Kleenex brand facial tissues. (In the same purse was a lock of her own hair, from when she was a girl in Ypsilanti.) She didn't know the tissues were in the purse, so she grabbed a few paper towels from the nearby ladies' room. Every paragraph in her brain was on the cusp of becoming a Pop Tart.

Outside she tried to hail a taxi, stepping off the curb with confidence and raising her arm in a taxi-hailing motion. She remembered, as she watched and waited, learning one day many years ago in seventh grade that plasma is rare in the universe. Her arm ached. Matter consoled her with its Newtonian heft, the purse hanging heavy and growing old as a tree.

Slumped five minutes later in the backseat of her taxi, she wondered how to respond to the message she'd received. How to proceed? She thought and thought. I've got to weave, she finally decided. Then she asked herself, Weave what? Am I saying I want to learn how to weave things? Baskets? Rugs? No, she realized. She had meant "leave". She wanted to leave. But leave what? She was again confounded. Leave the city? Leave the metropolitan area? Leave in some metaphorical sense? As in, stay in the city but "leave" my old habits or desires behind or something?

Amber's thoughts were cut short, momentarily, by the words of her driver, who said, "Hey. Hey hey, lady, where you say..." But the driver's words were cut short, permanently, by a blood clot that had been traveling toward his brain and now stopped there. Five minutes later police and EMTs were on the scene, and Amber was looking apprehensively forward to a holiday that hadn't been invented yet.

Today is the first wedding anniversary of everyone in the world who was married on the third of June, 2007.

I purchased a haircut last night. I washed the clippings out of my hair this morning. Last night some of the clippings got inside my shirt, where they touched my body. Today that will not occur, as all clippings have been washed away by this morning's shower. The hair that I have now is not as short as I would have liked it to be after a haircut, but it's shorter than it was—an improvement. The cost of the haircut was eighteen dollars. The tip I left was three dollars. The tip I left was a sixteen and two thirds percent tip.

A rural area

STARDUST


around here is, except
but no one who
erases the musical notes.
final. Closure, that's what
for what I remember
grew up around here
if it weren't so
It's in my hair,
musical notes, the sky
not for me. Not much
Oh. We're here again.
paint them back on,
pockmarked with imaginary flak.
probably the north, and
same. Goodbye, I'd say
Sure, somebody will (maybe)
sweeps in from somewhere,
The bridge painted with
they call it. It's
which looks terrific. Cool air
will ever feel the
years later, in a foreign capital.

Another perfect flight. It was scheduled for 2:00, and the wheels left the ground at 2:00. I managed to choke down half an Updike story in last week's New Yorker, then realized life was too short to finish it. Got home in time to do laundry at the same time I always do laundry on Sunday. Back to thumb-typing.

Arrived to find a new roommate moving in, also named Matt. The guy helping him move was yet another Matt. For a few minutes there, there were three Matts in this apartment.

Matt Matt Matt. Where will it end?

Saw this movie produced by this guy Val Lewton. The Seventh Victim. Then a documentary about Val Lewton. I need to find his movies and put them on my Netflix, and so do you.