i said i don’t need this; i do really well

so i wrote a poem the other day. it is very beautiful.

i had a dream this morning
insurance was adequate
contact was documented
surveillance was adequate
heart was heart
that the know about
you might get screwed on this thing
code cobra was employed
to see what they were doing
and after two years i go,
and like i said, and, yeah,
i’m pretty good,
i can go sit on my hill somewhere
and really zoom in on my work projects
the sun’s zooming in behind me
(people are in public places)
and you’re not assuming privacy
(and you’re looking into someone’s shower)
in idaho you can even assume that a reasonable
expectation of privacy is still a headache,
a gray area, not useful
the biggest one in the world is in las vegas
you’re not gonna get a fix if it breaks like another one
do you think you’re a good read of people
the thing is i’ve realized
there’s enough transcendental-ish reports, 560 dollars,
it’s gonna be hard enough to document,
you’re still going to have a hard enough time,
all those things –
probably they still see themselves
(in bushes)
well, yeah, and the next day the safety comes out,
and the next day in his backyard the hole comes out
and the guy says he’s, ya know,
nobody’s wife wants to say he’s disabled
he is partially paralyzed, but
that’s just it, you know, i don’t like going back
and forth – i’ve had a girlfriend for a while but in the next
few days we're going to alaska
but a year ago i went to career-ab-holding
and there not very many
huge companies, and they tried to have me farm…
to cut me short, and have me clip me 12 years ago, so,
i said i don’t need this; i do really well
we don’t charge for an hourly rate,
so fuck this,


with the exception of the truncated final line, which in full would read something like -- so fuck this, beer before liquor and the answer is none ... none more blacker -- i'm happy with it. see, it was my first day off in forever; b.mac and i ate a late breakfast, played pool, drank a few pitchers; and it was great. then i went to bernard's, downtown, where i remember drinking two happy hour martinis, which were only $2.25 each, were not a good idea,

you might get screwed on this thing

but still were better than the ones i had after that, of which i have no memory. poor, poor etling had an f'ing task getting me out of there and home

code cobra was employed, to see what they were doing

one of the only things i remember is pulling my hand away from etling's so as to point to the black ice she should watch out for, on which i then immediately fell, hard enough that she claims to have felt the reverberations through her shoes.

i can go sit on a hill somewhere, and really zoom in on my work projects

but no sooner was i there than i began to spin myself in circles, crying, wee! spin-spin disco time!

in idaho you can even assume that a reasonable expectation of privacy is still a headache

i don't remember are getting home, sitting down on the floor and hugging the corner of the bed frame; not eating my tacos; not watching the debut of 24; and passing out at 7:30. but that's what i did,

the thing is i’ve realized there’s enough transcendental-ish reports, 560 dollars, it’s gonna be hard enough to document

apparently when etling joined me at the bar, she'd told me of half-waking me that morning and asking me if i was dreaming. i said, "i am a garden vegetable." and how is that going? she inquired. "well, it was pretty rough for a while, but, now we have a few customers." so this is the emotional crux of what i set out, there at the bar, to evoke through poetry. now, a day later, the matter is simpler yet hopelessly more blacker than before.

all those things – probably they still see themselves (in bushes)

the dystopic redundancy of my blacking out one line into the composition of a poem inspired by a dream wherein i'm an organic cucumber nobody wants to buy is not lost on me, and if it is lost on you, well then, no hard feelings, you can stop reading and go ahead to the green room, where elmo and david lynch are making bumperstickers out of recycled hymen, and i'll see you there in a minute.

and the guy says he’s, ya know, nobody’s wife wants to say he’s disabled

when i was well into my poem and etling was actively conversing with the dude next to her, i grabbed her arm, swung her chair around, and told her (she says) that i was "99.9 percent sure you are really really going to love it." but then my laptop battery died.

i do really well, we don’t charge for an hourly rate, so fuck this.