8/6 sounds like a measure- this poem is in 8/6 beat. Pulled over while driving on the way to the bank 12 noon- mid day- numbers timeless-ness- an abstraction- numerics- cloudy today not fog, thick clouds in sunny California in August, an entry, sever any entry with a pen, this pen in the here and now in the midst of my day- errands- post office, bank, school, dentist- day off of work no work, just back from the Trinity Alps, "in these here Alps are no hours out" in these here suburbs are all hours in- speeding by my concept of time is accelerated is true on these pens suck my ass leaking and spraying all over my car as I shake to get ink interest anything worth saying pulled over in my car now 12:07 PM- time for Living Room on KPFA- they are back on the air yeeehaww so then they continue the conversations- I'll be back at midnight with a new pen that will not be sucking my ass. 

midnight 

my clock is fast for quicker exit into sleep. I just wrote, "Will I be a weird dried pod, or am I one already?" On the back of an envelope to Marian on 49th street in New York City- you don't know Marian, and either do I. Really she's my imaginary friend, she's a new enchanting nerve cluster in my brain- I am falling in love with the idea of her, the ideas are luscious and fulfilling, for a time, then empty. The energy between us does not feed off of air travel, or time, or respect the laws of space- so there midnight, neck propped upon pillow, arm tiring. Am I to write spontaneous poems? Am I to write 'I am' a thousand times around your address on the envelope? Am I to crawl into paper into pods? Can I back up? Can I refire the Valium? Can I access the puck? Can I fish hook the question mark till it pulls down the sky like a curtain? Can I nod off in the pod upon the unbleached pulp?