Valentines Day pome from last June.

What they say is; they what; is they. Tether the sentence back to me< twice, in a row, like a column of talking teeth<<<>>>The back row, one of them; where you step outside the comma, on either side; roses precede other ones. Place them all in here ( ). I'll take the red from CNN and translate it into Valentines Day. Why don't you just get out; take the holiday from every travel agent, & gesso it to my frontal lobe. "Which participant has any real intention here", says the digital photographer to the moon; a private number keeps calling like a prostitute that falls in love with her client. It is on the otherside of voyeurism, that the private number breathes, a paragraph separates us, it might be healthcare that keeps us in shadow; so why don't you 1-800-Flowers me.

for CLos

*57

On the "out of pocket"
nothing, birds, or are they
little books of forms, make
more air into having them go;
useful when you're
next to me checking
you're e-mail to see
if those birds
were also in my head
in the parking lot
walking towards Radio
Shack to buy a new
cellphone charger. Yes,
I was there with you
even if our footsteps
weren't legible
trying to sign on.

carla installment under the table.

make a really big Cloud

out of Huggies diapers.
hang it from the sky,
let it rain.

the Context cost more than the Image

Instructions:

1. Buy a really expensive authentic gold frame.
2. Take a photo of the cheapest thing
you could possibly imagine or encounter.
3. Place the image in the gold frame.
4. Hang it in a gallery.
5. Get someone to buy it for the cost of the frame itself.
6. Let the buyer take you out to dinner.
7. Have an intimate conversation about what the piece implies.
8. Go to a bar, talk some more about it.
9. Take out the cheap photo and replace it with a photo of the both of you.
10. Kiss the buyer goodbye.

Poem in response to Pablo Joaquin's dream..

Several nites ago, P-Lo dreamt that we
were in a triangular elevator moving outta
control. Then the Triavator shot us out
onto a street where we found C-los.
With just beginning a habit to randomely
flip through Creeley's Selected Poems 1945-2005
once a day to start every new day, it landed
on this one:

NINE

There is no point
of rest here.
It wavers,

it reflects multiply
the three
times three.

Like a mirror
it returns here
by being here.

*

Perhaps in the
emphasis implicit-
over and over-

"triad of triads,"
"triply sacred and perfect
number"-that

resolves what-
in the shifting,
fading containment?

*

Somehow the game
where a nutshell covers
the one object, a

stone or coin, and
the hand is
quicker than the eye-

how is that nine,
and not three
chances, except that

three imaginations of it
might be, and there are
two who play-

making six, but
the world is real also,
in itself.

*

More. The nine months
of waiting that discover
life or death-

another life or death-
not yours, not
mine, as we watch.

*

The serial diminish-
ment or progression
of the products which

helped me remember:
nine times two is one-eight
nine times nin is eight-one-
at the end,
move forward, backward,
then, and the same
numbers will occur.

What law
or
mystery

is involved
protects
itself.