the mess


   the mess i hate the most is the mess
       i make myself i say to you
curled and farting.  dawn's
  early light means butting cathead,
      purring humidifier, a kind of breeze --
   and unconscious clenching.
      back's wisp line clung to, kissed
  blades cuz smooth -- and the
        fit! breasts interrupt but knees
         fold into backs of knees
            and buttocks connect
                    to back of stomach.
         analogy is womb but drier.
        we do too much, get worn
             out so there's a kind of
                  jaggedness as crescents
                   under eyes ... no leaves
         on trees but buds that
  make us plead oh trees
please please give us
        your leaves i clean
  the house.  in the freest
        possible mood i clean
the house.  there is growling,
           gaiety, disorder, ornament,
                and any extra space we fill
            with words.  i can wash
     the words off the fridge
  but don't as there's a lot
of babaganoush and day
   newly sunny we're both
      at work.  our children tear
      the order into little pieces. 
 they are more parrots.
     dailiness forks itself over
            into the writing, trying
              hard mannered but there's
     a list of chores still undone
               in the canter of the
           universe.  i see three
      poles of how to write:
one stark, historical
            one airy, fluid, with
      lingerie, and then this,
the mugwump
      who never stops writing
   about writing cuz all
       text is hypertext and i
        have phenomenology
                 as eye is mouse when
   attention as rollover
forces blossoms.
              i want you to see this
     as a kind of photoshop
        document, with layers
   i poke in the eye to
  hide or reveal.
sucked along by
       f train into light
             mass buildings 
               and parties, readings
the various empire lights
the young poets 
now the sick old man
the jews the blue hat
the ponytail ...
                "the white knucklebones
          assert themselves through
      skin" wrote my teacher's 
sister.  is that an angora
                      of rage? in what gear
                        can you go constantly 
                             uphill? i notice i've
          grasped sisyphus's dick
            or why was he naked
             and straining (shining).
                    sisyphus.  are you
     corporate dragon lady?
or telecommuter? 
            there are no longer any free
               boxes or communes although
   headscarfs are institutionalized
  as are foods in bulk or any other
                calligram (mind, thought, will,
         attention, concentration) that pokes 
     me in the arm. the computer 
         engulfs me in cat litter
and cleanser, soapsuds, theory and
              dustmops.  rags.  i think of joan
                 retallack, kathleen fraser, labor
                  relations, my childhood in velvet.
the louder punk music when i'm 
                 near you sisyphus.  i can smell
   the lunchmeat in your musky
      groin.  sisyphus i smear you with 
  avocado, with mayonnaise in lieu
         of subtlety, jerk you off with yogurt
  and or honey mustard. it is my task
               and i'm sorry i just can't write more
     carefully because i don't have any TIME.
   i'm standing in the second avenue station
now.  now i'm on the train home.  you are
   a beatle.  you have the optometrist's gold
purse.                 i don't need comic books; i'm an artist,
                surrounded by sycophants, or just plain     psychos
       who are voyeurs in petal garments, the petals
              fly off their sleeves to make the carpet we
         walk upon the hangdog chaos i pin my lower 
                         lip upon and hang there suspended, 

a pig artery
transplanted on my cheek, my tiny nipple
stretched waaaaaaaaaaaaaay out and 

			looped around 
			a grotesque

			painting of a pen 
			i still somehow 
			manage 
				to write 
				with.


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