From my cubical at an international security think tank

I’ve categorized every left-handed, skanky knee that hasn't been

steaming down the side-aisle. I've lacustrined a country that

I carry in your pocket, so get that bong bongin', baby! This poem

has at least as much going for it as it did an hour ago, but

an hour ago a flower could've made my point that the dead can

see, they just can't get to work on time. I've received some

interesting comments on the last poem I published here concerning

H (Spread and enter). It seems the key to the production of meaning

is that you have someone strong and wrong and weak and right, what

Charles Bernstein likes to call “jump back, sit down and rest your hat".

What distinguishes Moby Dick from Melville's previous, merely excellent

work is the employment of the paragraph. Because unlike the dead,

Melville, or maybe it was Creeley, knows how to approach

collaboration. Collaboration is approached from the rear,

then you slam its fascinating text into a hospital in England

and the depression that follows determines meaning

on a need to know basis. I'm here on the Ron Silliman sofa

or chesterfield and no one has given me permission to be

on the divan or to set up a logic that will be crushed in the next

two sentences. First it's what Terry Gilliam calls “multiples” –

that is, more than one. Second, here in Philadelphia the drugs have

worn off and this blog will eventually find its way over to the weekend

and through the woods. Raccoons take note: no shooting-up while

wearing a mask of Rimbaud! Because it's this kind of shit that has recently

been turning up in my mailbox with its penchant for falling down stairs

and herding pigeons. And it's this change of the social that I was not through

desiring. I polish the Stanley Cup at my day job, I poke fun at “The Wasteland"

in different voices at night. Would I characterize this as “wrong”? No,

but it does come as close to that crowded “I” in “The Wasteland"

as any hunger allows. I've been misled, adapted, killed, offed

and placed in separate windows. And sometimes I crawl, all four

walls threatening to fall apart, but I'm going home soon to my garden

and my chimichangas and my fence-building. I'm making it smaller because

a high school art teacher told me that I was an odd duck who'd arrived in

one too many of those doomed places, and I would've looked more closely

at Poetry but that door doesn't let in light.