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.

Dream: Licorice Lamp

dreamt last nite of being in a store with
Michael Keenan. another girl is there too.
a man comes up to me, shows me how to
use a lamp made of what seemed to be
Twizzlers or red licorice lace. In order to
turn on the light of the lamp, you had to
tug on the licorice lace which hung from
the center of it, like from the center of a
bell. The whole lamp was made of candy
but you couldn't eat the light. But if you
could eat the light, then the color would
also effect its flavor.

parts from Soft Object Chronicles

*47

The months turn, folding
space into collars, a wrist
gives motion to embedding
goodbye on the street, sleeves
and more sleeves that make
me believe in what
meaning has do to
with the way a word
is put back into a drawer,
one long paragraph
of how to be; how
one is kept
in a body and the
creases where
inflection gets left.

*48

Light leaves a mark
on the brick building, a
thought doesn't want
to admit what it knows, or
the brick building is
just a surface for a thought
to have texture, as in
to think "brickly" about
you, but what would
happen if I projected
the greatest film of
our lives against it,
starring endless associations
between objects in relation
to ourselves would it
make the brick softer.

*49

Last nite was a mess, love
where were you, in some
room where your iTunes
echoed all the way
to my ear while talking
up and down Bedford Ave.
trying to find the bar,
branches fonted strict
against my eyes,
the verge of a note
popping on violin strings
or the For Rent sign
through a window
where I could drag
and click a file of
future music we'll be
talking through someday.

*50

Carlos, why not, might
as well have you as
my number one
friend on myspace, but
your profile is under
music and nothing
there plays except
the residues of since we
first met, all the coins
clinking at the cashier
like syllables, what is
happening to language, is
it becoming soft, or
are the objects which
surround it making it so,
like placing cotton balls
all over the words
cotton ball, defining soft
without ever being able
to hold it.

*51

The porch light
linking, you say
would you like to
sublet my porch &
I'd be happy to use it
as background to a song.

*52

Under the TV drizzle
of rain, we hollered aloud
below that Gertrude quote
etched on the side of the
english department "And
then there's using everything,"
umbrellas blocking
the spaces where I begin
to hear the panic of line breaks,
a digital flash photo as
semi-colon to an image
I've been trying to build
and you basically punch
through it with a lens
without letting me get
to the part where it matters
the most or
just saying fuck it,
why not just let the cloud
build itself once it gets
uploaded onto your laptop.

chinese jump-rope

materials:
exclamtion mark from 1992
floss
tilapia fish
tonsil stone
black sharpie marker
black wire