i feel as if i lack the soma
and as if my throat has been constricted
to all but
your honey.

there is nothing here.
i have forgotten the taste of your words.
and i have forgotten what it means to
drink milk correctly
without it bleaching your skin.

let us have a moment of silence for this life.
and now onto the next.

would you please remake my body?
would you please unwrite this?

none of the things below are being written.
except maybe the death book will be printed out
and hand stitched by me
and then thrown into the air so it can fall all around me.
[[camera zooms to poignant girlface
and accidental papercuts.]]

the book will be beautiful.
submerged under milk.
i am glad to be writing part of it.
the book will be printed in a limited edition
printed in squid’s ink and mollusk purple
onto gorgeous manna
which you eat
and then take all the words into yourself.

the world, though, has exploded.
but it’s okay.
all is music, and i am a busy bee.
but always there are words.

there are times when i feel flooding love inside me
and i want to pour it over your head
but where are you.

gustav klimt

or:
i feel as if
i am afraid of dental dams.
i am afraid of dental dams.

alias
derek piotr crofut
[[he hails from crooklyn now]]

I AM AFRAID OF DENTAL DAMS.

fall through space.
you’re not supposed to.
but just fall through.

i am pushing my bones at you, don’t you understand?
no, i am not being confrontational. you’re simply being passive aggressive.
i’ll put the gold over my eyes so i cannot see.
want a light?

nagoya marimbas.

this means nothing.
denotes –> nothing.

instead, i write of the holy dairyman.
his name is mutxen.
he looks like this:

Thank you, gorgeous toda boy, for having your picture in the public domain.

He is a dairyman, but falls in love with an average girl.
Her name is Teikirshy.
She looks like this:

Thank you, gorgeous toda girl, for having your picture in the public domain.

This is a story.
It does not have a title.
May it be felt and seen by Mutxen
and may it be in his milky eyes
and may it be felt in his parched palms.

sycamore has been finished.
it is not the new american novel.
it is not the novella you will read under your covers at night.
it is the short story that will make your head deny itself air.

it is still called, “scrape bark of the sycamore with your teeth; scrape the moon.”
but now it is finished.

pith & amber.
excitement.

james chapman’s the rat veda is coming out soon.
the day it comes out, the sun will explode.
i have held it in my hands and ran my fingers over the words.
elevated ink.
this is the page of it.
joy.

there is a silver and gold knot on my finger
and i am floating.

also i am doing HTMLGIANT’s “so many books contest”.
they say write a love story.
they say write less than 3500 words.
they say incorporate the numbers “100″ and “500″.
they say prize is 100 dalkey archive books.
they say jump, i say, “how high?”
i am doing this contest.

today i am being a woman.
tomorrow i am singing, “are you ready my brother? are you ready for the journey? do you wanna see your jesus? i’m waiting for the chariot ’cause i’m ready to go.”
next week i am looking out into darkness at a pale face with eyes blistering blue.
yesterday i did not die.
this is good.

i am writing a book called “deuteronomy.”
every page is a mosaic of leaves
with four-letter symbols printed on them,
woven together by the communal hair.
fifty of these will be made.

i am writing a book called “the voices of earth are many and striated.”
it is a history of death.
one of these will be made.

my womanhood is attempting to kill me.
there is a feeling
that these are the things of the land.

i am ascending.
bird made of four lines.

fugue state press
is publishing not only cathay umay
but also a novella in progress,
“scrape bark of the sycamore with your teeth; scrape the moon”.
i am ascending.
it is called, “pith & amber”.

you know not the charge of me.

My hands crawl over the surface of the table, dilatory; my fingers scrape into the teak. My eyes flutter and the dry tears of ennui spill out over the table, into the grooves scraped by fingernails painted with lassitude. I am only here because I am an insurgent. I inveighed against the sun, and I was put here out of reach of its scalding rays. The mind of my mind exhorted me, warned me against the war. The superego flitted around my bedchamber sprouting golden wings of utter pretension. The ID of my ID licked at the dissension, kissed the violence square on the mouth. I am only here because I am a stalwart; I turn my shoulders against the mind of my mind. I spit at the punctilious mind of my mind and it shrivels on the cold tile. Call me brusque, I’d rather call me determined. I’m not the credulous sort; I believe what my fingers tell me. My fingers tell me: the death of the sun is palpable. I sit here in the lazy dark, in the strongest silence, and it is no fortuitous thing.

did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you look when you’re asleep?
i want your weight on me until the planets collide with each other.

i haven’t written in two weeks.
for two weeks i have lived in my novel.
for two weeks i have lived in my novel.
for two weeks i have lived in my novel.

yesterday, i met joshua cohen, and his beautiful girlfriend helen, for a short time.
joshua is deeply amusing and very intelligent, and largely hung over.
i enjoy him.
helen is tall and beautiful and knowsfeels about art.

everyone in the world should know about alberto giacometti.

set your skin on fire.

a lot of people are telling me that my mind means sex.
i think that sex goes well in the mind
like a gorgeous wine pairing.
floods the neural convolutions
drowns your limbic system.
lose your language.
lose your fingers.

i want to lie you down in soft loamy earth
cover you in dry fragrance and spice
hover my fingers over you
and look dark into your eyes.
ancestry known.

someone teach me again how to write a novel.
someone teach me again how to avoid women.

life is simply gorgeous sensuality.
set your skin on fire.