your love helped me claim it. shortly after this we walked across to a wee island in the lagoon. shortly after that a cop said stay off the ice. shortly after that i saw the cop car on the bridge in my beacon lime green coat on the next wee isle. shortly after that we ran like hellions to 57th street beach.

copp sees himself in the ice.

tee hee, we walk on water.

the task was to quit and the task was to quit quitting.

knowing how it ends and still wanting to.

knowing how it ends and still might.

you want to embrace the animal that needs you want that embrace.

their fate is the same, the dog and the poet.

we'll try again tomorrow which is today.

another way of seeing.

mr. ice got soul.

living ice

dreaming ice

full of notions. replete unto blankenship. blithe america. in a word, deleted. i almost and then i  thought it's like that, you know it's always provisional and rote too and will end in disappearance and there's some comfort and thrill inside. doing the same thing over and over to infinity in a day. so bund. so endearing, tendering. very close to my dog.

slipp.

ice nerves.

ice quint.

oops i lost reunion island.
i wont mention china for fear
i will lose them like russia
and if i court the united states
i shall really be sunk

goodbye reunion.

i feel fatigued and unnerved by holiday. and then i feel a freak and an ingrate. i don't think this is recent. i think i have felt this way from my insomniac child hood. and the library smells funky.

as if my head was a flower nodding in a winter meadow unnoticed.

spine of sand.

mourning after thanksgiving.

happy thanks, doug and copp.

                                             peace is the quiet revolution.

but by not succeeding to fit in i succeeded in not fitting in.

as soon as i lost my place, i realized i was already a non-entity.

i know i will say the wrong thing again. i won't be right.

almost, cont'd.

the nature of a machine is revealed in its uselessness.

behind the mask of emptiness, a face.

you never really know who people are.

but her black eyes were so alive with death.

but tell me, what have these difficult feelings to do with thanksgiving.

i gave her my favorite book at the time, the songlines, to read, she gave it back ravaged. she said i am hard on books. i threw it away. i didn't read that book again either.

she read me by my medicine cabinet, but wouldn't tell me what she read. i had a tiny dashboard doll in a bottle facing out the window. she hated that, which i understand, but it wasn't an act, it was a feeling.

a thought forgot is still language.

often i think he speaks as words come into my mind.

cloud diary, at times a thought, thought, would appear written, a fluorescent caption floating there.