Mar.7,2008
“Them Changes”
I want to open this with a rim shot that travels the lengths of the unknown for Brother Buddy Miles. His work with the Electric Flag, specifically the track “Nothing to do”, inspired me to get off my lazy intern ass a few years back and write one of my first Re:discovereds for Wax Poetics Magazine. His physical death has inspired me again, this time to unearth a series of writtens that have been buried in my catalogue for longer then I can remember. Most of the work is stuff that I had no place for at the time it was composed. The kind of pieces you write on the train or in the park with no predisposition for where they might end up. The kind that I heard a poet refer to as “the insignificant spillage that people feel obligated to display at open mics.” Fortunately for her I don’t do those anymore. Without further adue I present The NOTeBOOKseries 2008. (a cackle of fireworks)

Vol.1(the actual notebook)

Call Human Resources Lady Today -Alicia Partnoy
-Troop Yo te hablo de poesia
-Force MD’s y vos me preguntas
-Switch a quehora comemos
-Surface lo peor es que
-The System yo tambien tengo hambre
-Whispers
-Ready for the World
-Intermission
-616

With our money on the afterlife
And thirsty for appetites
Existence is a game of inches
my methods are metric
So I keep one ear on the Meters to stay on beat with the message.

Alicia were you dreaming my nightmare

Jazzman’s interpretations sense of
value

.Some people are just eruptions of misunderstanding

-and their still a piece of the mystery

F.Senior: Now this here my friend is truly a game for kings. Nothing tells you more about a man than how he throws these bones.

Fiance: 4/1

Holding one another amongst Queen Bridges, slow mornings under subway skies concrete constellations and entangled instance.
Love that tastes smells and feels like hair grease, sticks to the finger tips and shines on the neck, we have each (us) other like we have no end to the troubles we’ve seen.

Gleasons
7:00pm
Brazilian Rice
4 table sp. Olive Oil
1 medium onion
12oz (2 cups) longrain rice
washed soak
in water
2 tomatoes 30 min
1 teaspoon salt
3 1/8 cups boiling water

-fry onion/oil 5-7 min
-Rice 3 min
-Tom. salt 2 min
-Boiling Water- 15to 20 min

2 cups yellow cornmeal
1 cup all purpose flour
1 cup sour cream
2 table baking powder
2 eggs
1 cup cream corn
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup bacon fat
+1 tablespoon milk
400 degree
butter & honey
chicken 2 tble salt
3 tbl honey
1 tbl vinegar
325-350 20 min (foil)
450 to crispness (open)

She’s beautiful but can’t

And he’s dutiful but can’t be part of this artificial
artifice

Call List *Wax Poetics: 718-624-5696
Beautiful Decay-
Nynews.com/org
Futurepress, times media watch list.
Aeronautical defiance, abstracting
alliance and articles of war

40 W 23rd st.
2nd floor
917
262
4000 Mike
Cusenza
2 copies 102 will@thefader
Editor
Jason
Koransky

Belindasuperstar@gmail.com

Son of man corralling the remainder
of his hidden excellence
It takes more effort to let go of that which is prior
Still and instilled vegilance.
-Our hands too can be placed into the
soil, tearing forth rock and root
until the sky is touched with blood
her endless mate. Not every
coupling has limits. Only time
and a distance can prove themselves
unworthy of us.
Time and distance have proven themselves
inadequate bedfellows to our ever present
expansion/contraction, colture
Coltrane culture

Lesser Know & Those Chosen
Expounded upon by the greater & the few…
-Every meal felt homemade,
she was that kind of woman. He always
had something in hand, ready
to provide to the point of illusion.
All certain points in my youth I
recall the distinct feeling of
satisfaction. I have never known
the ____ of poverty as a child.
As a man I look to the example of
my father to gage hw well I
provide for those around me, as
well as myself. How can one offer
his brother water without first ensuring
the presence of his own arm.

In sleep I found the sanctification of my
being. If my unconscious was able to
maintain the cerebral imprint of my
person, as wrecked and dysfunctional
as it may appear, then I figure
it must be worth something. Even
if it is only a perpetual work in
progress.

-Soundless montage
Arrogance, uniform escapade,
Ovarion contagions

From a murderers perspective. Happy birthday
Mr. President,

I shiek I Ayatolla
Crack the stone back of Crackatoa

Local Urbanites Soul Sidity, Hathaway
collided with Hallmark, we love America
we hate America
We Love hate America so much its rich.
Street slinking on 150 dollar chariots,
no eye contact, we all on missions,
is what your glance says, teaching
me the fleshy taste of guilt. What do the streets
have to watch, and if that’s the case is anybody
listening. Neck scarves and eye pods
who’s visionary

Tore away the night to find what’s righteous.
Mighty Papyrus, exists within the gaps, adhesive
flax, wax and borax

Rough roads cut omens into your
new kicks.
Gravel Silouettes, wear brand name and numerals useless
Give a dollar to the water man
in the summer he add 50 cent to
increase prophets
While touching the throats
of the dishonest
Gossip through tooth caps
lips line with mango
the sweetest of all lies
old heads dawn the apparel
of apartheid.
Sleep once the silence hits
tertiary compounds to convalescent
background, minor blips
Same lame lines. Glimpsed it over

She had the off center, honest, what time
should I be home to coax an extra
smile type beauty. Eclipsing rounded
eye beneath forests and curtailed halos.

Who started to believe everything I see.

“Loneliness”, muttered the admiral.
“And nothing more. Man can’t change under his skin—not like the sea.
A mountain in one breath and a canyon
the next. Expressive, decisive
and indifferent. Not for
a man. No, he’s frozen in his
own damned nature, tepid
and wandering.

“Westly Moore”
Eating alone is bad for the memory.
Especially when you’re trying to forget the details
Why is the curl of her lip so alluring, especially that
corner. It always felt like kissing a smile. The only genuine
smile on this earth. Was it because
she was happy then?
Will I ever feel her smile again, unfolding without time or measure?

There is no excuse for pissing
on oneself after three bears,
that is the D mightys lowest
of lows.
Now we wait for phantom trains
after boomed music in small rooms. We breath
peace when echoes fall on shadows.

Pretending I’m over my loneliness, we cure
ills with business knowing tomorrow
won’t be shared.

*What makes him worthy, hands bleeding
the blood runs dry like his tears, salted wanderings
on clay pathways.

She folded his shaking frame into herself,
reclaiming a lost essence. Rainwater
into the ocean.
She asked me if I just wrote to
fill pages.

I told her writing made me
feel ageless, nameless, and
painless.

I can’t get my fix any other way
It still leaves me guilt ridden,
Considering all that we feel is unreal.
What sign of the divine?

Writing street roles for my passing Euridicy
they demanded my final sonnet

In those waning hours when
the bottle is drinking me