so many years without touching and wearing sweaters and still only summer and then their hands rubbed, just an incident on the subway sounded the alarm, incident as in “falls upon you” says one etymological website, “falls” like from heaven? your hand, our touch, the electric shock it sends up my spine into a sudden sizzling ming…i mean mind…ming is a chinese dynasty i think? all the empires and dynasties and kingdoms and caliphates and my mind quickly flees to things I love like the way they wrote .colt 45s makes me wonder about language rules and i follow one….whatever it takes to get your point across and if confusing is your trip, then confuse us gertrude was the maid. she’d come a couple times a week with three kids in that small house and of all the great things gertrude told us about fort benning and the one i remember most is when the mice would come out of the wall like a gang….gertie would pull us all up on top of the counter and we would watch the mice eat scraps and then they would go back in the hole they came from and looking back now it all seemed so predictable, but whatever i’m glad to remember, to help me better understand animals and living in the jungle and she the goddess, our emails we never sent i bet and that was that ever increasing space between not hearing from you contraction getting more and more frequent as you drift further and further away and then the new baby is born and the contractions disappear and i am always the new baby. we all our and owe it all to her and here i could yell names at her for all she’s sown, but i never yell at farm fields i should invent some prayer to be recited when we see growth, but then we’d be praying all day. a monk that makes wine and drinks it all day yes god is good where do i sign?

we pass each other in cyberspace,
that feeling
is gone
again
back again now
but
that’s not sad.
that’s just the music i’m listening too and
“i can change the vibrations” he says or “i can tune into the exiting vibrations” and i am hijacked, my mind is hijacked and i’m now waiting for the next vibration that speaks to me and i’m beginning to feel like i might be spending the rest of my life all alone but here comes the marathon runner and the death of my pen.
it’s saved me so many times.
paranoid and
stuck in a car
pen and notebook paper
writing myself free
all those insecurities and inferiority complexes
purged on the page
dear pen
i will try and visit you
wherever i bury you,
me and my new pen will come see you
and we’ll drop some beer on the land above you
and that night this night
we’ll get closer
for a pen,
a vigil for a pen
and this all originally scribbled on a notebook
with a new pen and
dammit
i forget your last words dear pen,
but i know it was in the middle of a sentence,
probably, a run on sentence,
either fast and undecipherable
or molasses slow,
like those first days when we learned how to write
like cave painting sensation
like touching on the subway
walking in the cemetery
those winds rub-a-dubbin on them leaves

brewers baseball and things

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