and look a--

and look a/
meaning i create/
from the will only/
for a meaning to make/

Group 2

she is wearing the same outfit. it's different, but it's really the same. and this time, when one of the members walks through the door, she says "hi" and clears her throat so that you know that she is nervous and desperately wants to be respected or possibly even feared. that she could even imagine her presence creating fear in someone is near beyond belief. she says hello and tells him to pee in a cup all while she pushes the cup right into his chest so that he knows what is happening long before the words make it out of her dry throat and thin, red lips. he pees in the cup while she waits on the opposite side of the door, listening. he opens the door, welcoming her into his pee station and in her attempt to assertively and seamlessly screw the cap on to begin the examination, she agitates the cup just enough that just a tiny bit spills onto her right index and middle fingers. he sees this and chuckles, starting to speak, but says nothing as he fixes his eyes on her, watching her grow red and forcibly avoid confirmation of the slip. "What kind of person am I dealing with here?" he must have been thinking. But as she re-focused her attention from the warm, yellow drips, she carried right along, tightening the cap, ready to administer the exam. yes, she flips the cup over, allowing his "goods" to enter the tiny testing device and mark positive or negative for a wide range of vices. she explains the exam, noting the importance of the tiny lines they each anticipate. when one doesn't show, she literally says, "humph!" he only looks at her, knowing something is up. when she asks if he sees a line under the purple column marked "OPI," he confirms that "no," he does not see a line, but that surely, he is not high on opiates. as she asks for carol, he thinks about the everything bagel he had for a snack. the bagel had poppy seeds on it. "what did you eat today?" carol asks, knowing this person can not be on opiates. "shit, carol, i ate a bagel with poppy seeds. carol, i'm not taking opiates." she focused on the spot where there should be a line. "i think i see a faint line." she adjusted her glasses. "yea, there's a faint line there. do you see it?" carol asked him. he said "yes," that he'd seen the line. when he looked at her, he knew she didn't see a line and his eyes admitted to her that he hadn't seen it either. the third party, who had likely taken this brief moment to wipe the piss off her hand onto her orange pant leg, wanted to see the line, too. "it's there," said carol dumping the urine into the toilet. "don't eat poppy seeds before one of these," carol said. "i won't," he said.

Group

she is sitting in a chair to the right of a small whiteboard facing the nine other occupants of the room. her body bulges over the sides of the chair, as her bodyweight is well beyond that of a normal female. in fact, nearly nothing about this woman is very particularly "normal female." and it isn't that the woman is an overweight lesbian, but more that she is wearing clothes that you are sure she owned in college even though she is now at least 35 years old. it's also that despite the fact that her socks match her outfit perfectly, no doubt something she carefully aligned, the socks are only ankle-high and thus reveal the black stubble on her not oft-shaved legs which show because of her too short pants. her pants also reveal that despite a concerned effort to neatly tuck in her multicolored striped shirt, she made the explicit decision not to wear a belt. the decision is made even more clear to the occupants of the small room, as her weight causes the top of her pants to fold slightly over and thus cause the neglected beltloops to bulge outward. her hair continues the theme, more stained to her scalp than to her buzzed mane. if she fumbles any more, grows anymore nervous, they all fear that she will perspire and thus leak the maroon tint from her scalp down the side of her bulbous, rouge-colored cheeks. this might even be a welcomed distraction some of them begin to think as they sneak looks and glances across the circle, wondering whether to smirk, giggle, or cringe. their reaction seems to be chosen for them, though, as she struggles to uncap the orange marker she moments earlier used to carefully draw a diagram of the human liver before they entered the room. seeking to add to her drawing, to wow her audience, to both educate and dazzle them, she now trembles in fear and mutters with nervous laughter. the group now knows to laugh. there is no other reaction to this thing in front of them, struggling, stuttering, but still smiling, as she seeks to explain the intricacies of the human liver through an analogy involving a parking garage, aided by a marker she simply cannot unsheathe.

For Lyn Hejinian

Concerning such
weightier concepts
I know not of

A focal point of self-centeredness. Feeling like the center of the universe. A million centers of a million universes. Each equally unbalanced. Scales leaning towards their own version of middle. Rocks in lakes skip themselves. Yet from the shore, it seems as if we were always doing it. On a bridge, ripples are blind and unseen. A cool, calm surface, not reflecting the underneath. Turning away from self, as if to acknowledge: "We should go, we aren't much like this." A crowded car, the turning on of a television set, the shutting off of selves. Life is nothing yet but the collective buzz of florescent bulbs, buzzing and breaking. But as "All things go," we nod and accept selves because we know to. Of others, we slap a hand or give a look. Acknowledgment is not yet mutual. Prizes are often handed down to those who don't know what to do with such weighty concepts. How does one locate self in big black oblivion? Bouncing off of bright white stars that are both seen (in the sky) and unseen (in the mind's eye). Above all else: speed. A collective sigh or gasp with a shrug. Capacity to push further on -- wondering, but never knowing.

insomnia (college edition)

it's a silly thing
going to sleep
at 4:07 ante-meridian,
saturday (sunday, really),
jamaica, queens, nyc,
with a glass of red
instead of white,
and waking up is silly, too,
to the sound of a microwave
at 12:59 post-meridian
instead of a rooster at dawn.

and today the superbowl
is on and we all watch
and share "ohh" and "ahh,"
and the rolling stones die
right there on stage,
and there are some who
say they like it,
but most say something different,
like they should have
quit a very
very long time ago.

while me--

while me
i watch out my window
and hear one or two drops
icy rain on my screen
waking me to day
showing me
to see
out my window
is far from ordinary--

where are you sitting?

The King (opening)

His country was small, there was no doubt. The people lived modestly within careful borders. They had warred before, but having known mostly peace, were quite content. His people were well fed, happy, and safe. Ill thoughts were rare and a fleeting few. Any commoner at a local house of ale could be heard to say "this is a fine land and we are want for it to stay this way."

For Frank O'Hara

He wrote a poem
and sat down
with it for lunch
at some café
about to burst
with people
checking their watches
and tying their laces
shuffling
from shop to shop.

He sent the poem
to his friend
who lived a few
miles away
in a small room
just like his
where he opened
the letter and read it
and put it in his book
to remember
that it was there.

He shuffled
back to work
after he ate
his small lunch
and sighed and sat
thinking about life
and of a new poem
that he could write.

What could be condensed
he thought
what could he experience
and translate
brief with clarity
into a fresh poem
that he could record
for a new friend.

He sent
his poems out
to his friends
to show them
what he felt
was worth living for
what was important
and his friends
kept his poems
in their books
so they would know
where they were.