


My right eye above
left below Not blind enough
yet to stop screaming
Excrutiating,
waiting for saturated
cold press block to dry
Exasperating
warping then saturated
happy accidents
I claim my idea
Bliss. I’ve three canvases sop
pingwet, teaching my
self blue so I can
teach myself green, awooga
my cataclysmic
pacifier, boop, thumb
in my canary elbow
of weathervane an
kle of cassandra
merkin of fool. Digit
al type while gouache dries
The other side of the below
Last night the first time in seventeen days I typed in digital tablet. I write daily in analog tablet but what I write in analog tablet I never commit to any self-surveillance programs on any of my self-surveillance devices. As long as I burn all fifty years of analog tablets scattered in boxes in my bedroom and basement and work office and carrel five minutes before the bus I didn’t know will hit me hits me my secrets are safe
Driving to Michigan April Fools Day for a week with our daughter and son-in-law. Packed no paint, no canvases, I can’t paint on vacations, no time, no privacy, no urge, no point worrying what to bring, what not, to not paint
If I take no paint and canvases to Michigan and want to paint I can blame me for not taking paint and canvases to Michigan, deem this a failed experiment, pack them for Maine this July, end up pissed at me not painting when I packed paint and canvases for Maine this July
Above, what my right eye sees, below, my left
A vomit is an extreme burp
I once consoled Billy Wayne
busy extreme burping on my shoe
I need to start a new elephant
note page for March but was
afraid I’d forget this poem’s first
sentence formatting another
month in a platform I’d rather
paint bricks than use. No
abacuses were used in the how
old are you Jeff the gimmick
rictus of this poem. I’m growing
Strongest proof of god
is that I can’t sing, second
proof I can’t draw shit
I not only can
nap now I need nap or I’m
feebler than new borns
I lose my balance
opening the dishwasher
Still love steep mountains
up but steep mountains
down now no, fucking hurts, knees
yes, eyes more, can’t see
where feet go, will I
kill myself deliberately
or “stumble” to my
death, a soccer team’s
shirt has joint you can bet my
death over/under
The red blue yellow tubes of gouache L bought in Baltimore were in the same paper bag as the watercolor brushes I bought in Baltimore, uh-oh, not that I’m going to give up fountain pen and watercolor ink but maybe I don’t have to stain my hands each and every night with them, I broke my gouache duck, laugh!
I am the only Jeff I know.
I meet other Jeffs often
through work or Subaru
service managers who
insist their name is Jeffrey,
please don’t confuse me
with them, I’m not a James
who hates Jim or a Charles
who hates Charlie or a Robert
who hates Bob or a Margaret
who hates Peggy or a William
who hates Billy or a Stephen
Steve or Michael Mike
or David Dave or Edward Ted
or Eddie. Please call me Jeff.
I’m the only one I know.
Should I write about my marriage at some point? Is this
tonight’s poem? It better be. I love her when I’m with her I
love me most when I’m alone. I’ve tried to make that not
true. She is not here with me now while I write this
poem and I will not show her the poem and I’ve never
asked her to read any of my poems. Tomorrow we hike
the Appalachian Trail through blooming mountain laurels