I lied about having read something, having seen something, and having looked something up in the dictionary. I was supposed to tell my sister about the word "diener" - so that she could impress a surgeon - but I didn't. I was supposed to tell her about a word that starts with "s," but I didn't tell her about that one either. The word had to do with seeing white beneath someone's eyes - it sounded like "seppuku." I was supposed to mail a disk to a publisher, but I didn't. I wasn't supposed to speak about Vaunted getting a grant, and I did. I spoke about it for a long time to the aggressive man who lives across from me. My father figure - when I was 16 - was sort of a cliched character now that I think about it. He, like a cliche, died of a heroin overdose beneath a banyan tree in Kapiolani park. I wish I knew some great new slang term for heroin, but I don't. I could call it "Royce," I suppose. He pushed himself into some Royce. He once told my boyhood friend and me about how he died multiple times, and how - like a cliche - each time he hovered above his body and saw himself dead. But I read an article in the New York Times about how that sort of thing has been scientifically proven. He didn't have any kind of mystical experience - the whole thing was some kind of yet-to-be-explained article. The man who collects dead bodies in Detroit is a cliche. We like it because we are so drawn to that sort of reporting. Hey, he's never recovered a dead Asian person. Half the time, those he recovers are naked or on the toilet. But has he seen dogs pulling a person apart? I went to the Post Office today and saw a tree falling down on my way. I got a coffee in the bread shop this morning, and a man who is always there accosted me yet again. He always wants to know if I've ever read anything about General Custer. A month ago, I made the mistake of telling him I'm a close personal friend of Evan S. Connell, the author of Son of the Morning Star. Jesus is sometimes the son of the morning star, but Lucifer is sometimes called that, too. (I learned all that from reading the notes to James Joyce's Ulysses. Whenever I see Ulysses or Don Quixote or Lolita on anyone's bookshelf, first I think, "Oh, college. The usual exhausting student books." Then I think about cliches.) I can never remember who is Lucifer, who's the Devil, Mephistopheles, or Beezelbub. Evan is just about my grandfather. He took baths with my grandmother in France. My grandmother does not like it whenever I grow any kind of facial hair. She says has never cared for any kind of facial hair. The only time she ever liked it was when it was on Evan. He has some sort of mustache. Now he lives in Santa Fe and bird wathes and publishes something sloppy but named every other decade. My grandmother also took baths with Anthony Quinn and Sydney Chaplin. Quinn's calling card was a little red round of Smiling Cow cheese. My grandmother has a trail of black hair that grows from her groin to her navel. She shaved that thing for some men but not for my dead grandfather because he liked it. He is dead. Before he died, he had to have a leg removed. They also made him eat shark cartilage. The man in the bread shop is something of a cliche because he has lots of scars on his wrists. I asked him about them, and he said he has tried to kill himself numerous times. I asked him if he ever tried to lie in a warm bath after he did it. He said he did. Killing yourself like that is a cliche. Sometimes people open veins on the throats at the insides of their elbows or on the insides of their thighs. Any kind of killing - no matter how creative - is a cliche. Someone told me the story of the woman astronaut who drove 900 miles while wearing an adult diaper so she could pepper spray the rival of her imaginary lover's affections was trite or cliched. Vaunted Sharkey, another of my boyhood friends, told me he accidentally had sex with his sister when he was 8 and she was 10. That is a cliche. Writing about it now somehow seems so tired and familiar. I have often used the word "exhausted" or "exhausting." This is all so exhausting. After I mailed my application to the summer writing retreat (I'm sure I'll get in) and my friend's submission to a publisher, I spat in the bin. I spat in the street. I spat on a restaurant's window. I spat in my coffee. Yesterday I read next to a German man who re-enacts Viking stuff all over Europe and America. He has been to all the contiguous U.S. states. He was a roadie for a metal band in Oakland - I forget the name of the band - they still tour and their name starts with a "D." He was an especially cliched figure, especially when he started talking to some bearded young men about the U.S.'s diplomatic methods. The bearded young men had been in a band and had worked as roadies, too. The bearded young men had ridden boxcars and hitchhiked across the U.S. in the early 2000's. Oh, and the German Viking was doing leather work as he spoke about diplomacy. He was punching holes for silver pieces he wanted to sew onto a leather sack he probably made in West Virginia. Vaunted is a cliche, too. And the boy who sold baby scorpions to all us other boys in fourth grade.

He came from orange and played on the offensive line for UNLV. Railroad stations come momently. An organ should be re-leathered. The inside of her was re-leathered before we went to the Jersey Shore. She wore a tiger print bikini. We went to the zoos in Philadelphia, Newark, the Bronx, and in Central Park. Joan Crawford was disguised as her maid before she went behind her screen and changed.
In a peach orchard
Athwart his legs
By the crab
In the sea
Death comes momently to the lady in the tiger print bikini. My grandfather had to have his leg removed. The question happened to be above or below the knee. To go below the knee would make everything much more complicated. Whatever the surgeon saves must have a blood supply. Grandfather's minah bird, Georges, eats only hamburger meat. The airstream trailer is too bright to see. She has hair growing up to her navel, but my grandfather likes that. Other men made her shave that or she shaved it for them. Get ready to retch. Near the water pump for cleaning camp plates, you get ready to retch. You water out your mouth. This, after bad cranberries. This, after grandfather's leg. He played on the line for UNLV. He has a ring like a knuckle from the Naval Academy. He dropped test atomic bombs in Nevada. Played volleyball. His workers wear straw hats and black jeans. Scarcely broken, the minah bird, Georges, speaks to me. My landing received, I fell down the stairs and knocked out my front teeth. I am attracted to women with kicked in teeth and canines that flair out. The thoroughfare was flooded with fools schooled at Notre Dame. None of them like aluminum paint like me. The tigers at the Philadelphia zoo made me sad. Their cage looked awful - no one made any attempt to make it an environment. They had hosed the cement, so the tigers had wet stomachs. Inside, stomachs wet. My dwelling happens to be brilliant red and exceedingly demented.
I run underpass.
I know what the Holland tunnel sounds like. Mr. Holland died before they finished him. 14 died. But, hey, it's ventilated. Does it still cost 6$?
Kill Van Kull under the long bridge. I am a fine example of cowardice. I am ready to retch what I have. I cluster because this is it. Once in a sycamore
the strong sea
Phalanx, spread.
My talent was postponed for another ideal wait. The poet's permanent home was fumigated. Mount Pleasant. My progress - I am less sententious. I have decided to write AND live beneath a pseudonym. From my cottage along the river, I see children attempting to fish.

Now that I have completed my second year, I am HAGGARD. The LACE I bought gave me no delight. I imagined it would, but no. I eat what I can overcome. My brother wears a LEOTARD. He can be in the basement. He can pretend his arm's removed. He can put a cord around his wrist, put the end outside, and wait for something to pull him out the window, into the street, and into the sea. He can change from a leotard to just the tights. Black tights. Up top, he looks 3D. Down below, 2D. You OUGHT to thank me for coming home. You had too much to drink, so, when the alarm goes off, we don't know what to do. And Delos, in his dancer's tight, telling me about the Tybee bomb. He is the gold coin boy. KECK: to make the sound of retching. Get ready to retch. "Keck" was the sound she made. I would like to KEEP what you gave me. The RAUCITY in her peritoneal cavity. I HOP aside, of course, unnerved by nail polish, my hives, and the two-dimensional quality of my brother.

The email iris inside of her eye is the dark inside of a mushroom. The iris looks too much like the inside of a mushroom. The unlovely sorter of cadavers. She cuts herself - a tidy one with a knife. A thirster but vomition. Four years old and in surgery. A brain injury. He sat thwart-wise from me and dripped. He, the drip, the thirster, and all he sees is vomition. The hand-drill in under the sink. Under the skin. Again, the "k" jumps back when we want it to. Ants in the dough. He, the thirster, was a freak of temperament, of disaster. Her face was freaked with blood - o, the cadaver. How hard is it to remove a leg, an arm? Before I sleep, I imagine my arm's removed my leg. I have a cord around my wrist, and I believe something will pull me out my window and into the street. Then, into the sea. This story will be about ecstasy. It comes by addition or by subtraction. For once, we proceed from chaos to equilibrium. Her face surrounded by bevel gears, by vomition. Fraught with fastenings and bevel gears. The wet-strength of the gauze we use is impressive. I warn the surgeon. The surgeon warns me about trephination. Something about diabetes and the cure of it. The glasses were broken. The glasses were not broken, but the man died. His name was printed on the bow of his glasses. She opposed my opening. Here I am, clear and tight. I have found tasks. I have found discussions about the surgery of the head. The brain.

Despite what I say, the thrum of her hands is a kindness. We sat thwart-wise for a long time. Wettability, maybe. This was written recently, but it is open for serious crit? Absolutely. He decayed through his ancestors, through his teeth, by burlesque. Yes. Nothing but a burlesque, it was. He pantomimed the scandal on a plane trip to Cuba because the engines were so loud. He could not tell us about the scandal on the plane, because the engines were so loud. The man who memoired the pine trees thanked me for handling all his ordinaries. The man, who wrote about egrets in his poems, proceeded to memoir my pine trees. I asked him not to.
The passage of their necks on my spine. The ballad I heard was sloppy, but it had a thrum to it which fixed the cant of mine. Your Symbolist poetry was a little misleading. In those years, I was ill, less obscure, and should have been obscure. My hat was black. The most delightful images appeared on my mirror. This time I am writing of machinery and broad stone sidewalks. I am writing of a shimmer I saw but cannot describe. Of wettability. The hallucination of having lived a sunday childhood. The reptile's cloaca that clicks in my head.
The wreck occured because there was ash in the air, in the sea, and in the back of their throats. His amusement of my letter led him to his fireplace and chimney. He discarded me. Later, he found a metal box in the back in the bricks. An Italian pistol, two wedding rings, and a round bone. In his life, he was associated with a decade, not a century. It gets easier. This stewardship gets easier. I am not very fond of the charm resisted, the fatality persisted.

At hazard, I asked her if she'd like to walk a circuit with me. In the middle of it, we saw masts of ships framing a plummeting plane.

Bird beak nibs. Yes, she is clear and tight enough. She was clear enough when she said the sort of thing that does not involve the brain, the tongue, the neck. What she said just involved the glands. Her writing comes from the glands, not the heart. Not the head. Her clear and tight. Dear Puzzled By Indirect Intercourse... What's wrong? Don't you like crunching ice with your boots? Don't you like being told your biology, your work, your behavior, stinks? Don't you like someone hounding you with a camera and no click? She used Like when she meant As. He, the pedant.

Cruel acts which are not bad - I am looking for these. Ever handled a widow? Have you? Have you ever had a standing date with a widow? I have. And we never fail to knock knees. Ashamed of me - more shaking - I drove the car over booby-traps and nothing! Not a one worked, but I wanted them to work. I know what it's like to get it all across the elbows. For days, I've had it across the elbows. Enough. We hid the canteloupes in the theatre, because they had wrapped up the play. In the first act: they cropped him close.
In the second: Moments, however friendly, damaged my eyes. A whole diopter.
In the third: I found a lump of marrow under my seat. I thought it was rubber cement!
Fourth: discordance
Fifth: They got nothing done. Even the curtains wouldn't close. You know when the rod sticks? When the temp is just right and the plastic blows against you and wetdrifts against your thigh? I kept a window between her and me. Then, I painted that window because she sickened me. Comma, she sickened me.

Death, maybe, comes momently. With it comes a trephine and a flap. Because of his care and dress and habits. The girl who was clear. She was so clear. When children play at modern practice, nothing good happens. By good, I mean something that ends up on the plastic. The innovation of the skull flap. Self-taught. How difficult is the hyphen! The comma. Merriam Webster's dictionary is the only one you should be interested in if you would like to make it in the publishing world. If journalism, then MW's New World dictionary. Random House has a dictionary, but they still play by MW's. I would like the one from the 60s that comes in 3 volumes. No, I would like the one from '34 that comes in three volumes. To learn about proper punctuation, I will look at bound New Yorkers from the 30s to the 60s. That is the Golden Age of punctuation. There is nothing to it in the heads of the children now. They did not eat the mechanism, because it contained too much fat. They did not eat it because it contained two much fat. Only 2 gray hairs in his beard. Pull them out, tie them together, and put them in her drink. Her and her black and gray striped dress, the one I hate. It is supposed to be one of a kind, but it is not. Here I am, on my knees again. He closed it because it stuck in his indication. He did not close it, because it stuck in his indication. Get ready to retch. Get ready to play on the cut grass. Get ready to put material in your jacket because your jacket is not warm in it. Watch your gloves fall in the toilet when you bend over to read the graffiti in the grout. The Grout Gatsby. Grout Expectations. Grouts of Wrath. Apologies. True theories. Grafting fruits to his arms because no one will spend time with him. A child.

Procession, move. Go over the rocks.

Too cautious, speculative. He only cared for the sunlight during the day. At night, he did not care about the sunlight. The puzzling cut oozed. It came out of him like cream. Cream has a feel to the pour. Pour blood, and it has a feel to the poor. I am ashamed of the way I speak. I do not speak in beautiful or complete sentences. I do not start my sentences with emphasis, and I often fail to finish my sentences. He could not get over how tangled the tree branches, how layered the leaves. Colder. Recollections. The nib of his pen is a crow's beak.

When it runs out of ink - Caw!

Square box - very different - infected palms - dripping cream - pursue me further. WHy did you stop?

When I am alone, I see a wasp. I become quick. I become weak. I see cowardly. Unbound, however, I marveled at all the red on me. Cordwireropetwinehempbutcherstringziptie
Again, whenever I choke, I become fascinated with oxygen. I cannot figure out why. Me, in my dancer's tights. With my shirt off. They removed a stone from his head when they wanted to. My boyfriend was named Marek. I went to Brazil but could not understand Portuguese. I made that greasy faced kid tutor me in geography. I, later in the week, poured a drink on him. Liberal intercourse - in verse. Luxury is often sterile - with a trick of the head. "Something poured electricity upon them." Yes. When Joyce heard it, he got on his knees. The soiled stuff of Barnacle in his pocket. Stephen, burn this.

His care and habits. The way he dresses, his care, and habits. It was not the skull's fault - not the trephine's. She thought the trephine would relieve her of her fits. No, she got one for spiritual, no, mystical reasons. She wanted to experience ecstasy by addition or subtraction. For one, equil. She gave he skull to her son. Her skeleton and brain to her doctor. She wanted the rest of herself burned in a plastic bag. It would melt around her and give off gass. SO they gave her a trephine. She wanted them to give her the piece of her skull they took, but the surgeon already went away with it. Oh, she got mad. The surgeons and alienists took care of it. The one surgeon was a voice teacher. You don't have to have an MD to be a surgeon. The most eminent alienist. They cleaned the flap with carbolized water. They wanted to clean the flap like this, but they didn't.

A missing point. The Who Killed Her mother. The situation of the people is extraordinary. The situation of the bodies is less than what I expected. Sitting, counterpoised like that one picture of Billy, the Kid. Counterpoised in that one picture. Even my imagination is pocked with rock shelters. In each one, they marvel of the race. Not numerous. Not erect. No, silent. Something like when the ice hardens overnight. Something like leaning against the bookcase with your friend and doing the arm touching. Tubes of masonry. They stopped making tubes of masonry when it went out of fashion. vaunted came in and wondered about everything we were doing. vaunted wanted a new pronoun. The pronoun "I" makes the new pronouns - blends the He with the She with the It. The I dies that. Some places overhanging. Cleverly placed houses. I touched with him because of the house. I represented cliffs with my hand. Invented a new pronoun. vaunted wanted everything. Maybe too much. We mistook elliptical clauses for gerunds and friends. The imbecile. The supplies sink ahead. So much wasted, invested. Touch or Bust, we said. We ate with vaunted. vaunted claimed vanted's childhood was punctuated with red - like Stephen Crane. A red bit of cloth, a red leather glove, a red boot, red coming out of the lover's claim. Anything difficult was superseded by vaunted. By perils alone, we succeeded. The trestle-work of so much of her. I am streetside, but she works through windows below. I see all the trestle-work and am reminded of the thing I want now. Eccentric perserverence. Defiantly impressive. vaunted makes the cracks glow. I want the cracks to glow. Take all the cracks streetside and make them glow. Unfortunate she wore a new red sweater. Months after the fact, red dots everywhere. Some I threw away, some I flushed, one I ate. I ate her hairpin because that man ate an airplane. He knew the one thing he wanted then. vaunted in dancer's tights. Annoying. vaunted borrows the tv cable - has me wrap it around vaunted's wrist. New at growing hair, of course. Wants me to pull vaunted through the Atlantic. vaunted imagines having an arm removed. The arm raised by a butcher. Some preliminary cuts. The slip of it and it's off. I am told lovers can sleep on the blade of a knife. Her point was so close. Her point. The knife of it. Covered with talus. Her ornate porage punched in her face. Each one with some point that I would not like to consider for fear of upsetting vaunted who could only be bothered to pore over anything of mine. vaunted will pore over anything ov mine. My frontage roads instead of stoplights. My worthy increase in her presence was not acknowledged - sidewise. Counterpoised. The butt of the rifle is on my toe. The rifle work explains the lustre of my face. The gleam of it. What with windows - me streetwise. vaunted saw her wearing the same clothes. The same black skirt (cloud-girt). The same purple tights. The same horrible black shirt. The coat. The same! All of it. But she was eating with another contestant. The grotesque. The fully furnished. The formed. All of it known by vaunted. And I saw something that horrified me in a mucous membrane. But what I cut off was preserved and taken 40 miles into the interior. I asked for a blow across the wrist. The wand was made of yucca, but, of course, we spat on it.