Two Fortune Cookie Fortunes in One Day!

I wake up an hour before my alarm (set at 8:30).

I sit at the computer,
Full of too-early-morning yawns,
Where someone left me their
Good intentions:
Plan your work and work your plan.
Europe: Ou-zhou

Later we get sweet and sour (chicken),
And watch the sun fall through the trees,
After a day of vomit, papers,
And motorcycle tears:
You will be showered with good luck.
Telephone: Dian-hua.

I go to bed hours early (10:30).

Found Poem in Boehm

There is a girl crying in the hallway.
"Don't even worry about it, Katie,
He's a fucking asshole,"
The other says, standing at arms-length away.
Katie cries, the water fountain between them.

Note: What do you think about the punctuation in this? Too rigid, or does it ground it?

Spring Haiku

Sharp intake of breath
And we are coming alive
New baby green leaves

Intro to a paper for contemporary issues in professional writing

Please just let me shit out a paper for tues-morrow
because I cannot get on with my life or sleeping habits without a large dissertation on some element of the First Amendment in regards to Vanessa Leggett and whatever other fancy connection I may come up with in my quick searching of Ebscohost using only full-text scholarly journals perfectly cited MLA and never forget the AP stylebook that I purchased just for the class so I can pass and remember to maintain a 2.5QPA in the core required classes so if I were to just say fuck this paper fuck the first amendment and what it means and how it effects me and how I understand its power and implications but do not care to woo a teacher with formal writing about the subject my head would just explode
no.
I would rather write about robots fighting other robots and people who control them but are actually controlled by the robots because there really aren’t any robots it is just a loose metaphorical term for the people surrounding me connected to cell phones and keyboards going through motions regurgitating First Amendment rhetoric for A+’s across the boards that I don’t want to face that I don’t want to drag me down and I don’t want a simple paper accolade
no.
I want to slip a note under Dr Reed’s door with a poem about a spring afternoon lost in a labyrinth of academia piles of dead winter trees yellow autumn leaves burying me before I can break a red pen on the floor so everyone thinks I died but instead I escape through a portal and now only write in green ink in tiny notebooks in hammocks in the afternoon with cool drinks by my side and at night I retreat to my hut in the trees and make a symphony of typewriter sounds as I weed out the terrible words written about the sad times before the rebellion against the rules
and now I don’t wear shoes or cut my hair and even though I have a sunburn most of the time coconut juice always satisfies my hunger

porn

i was so tempted to use a really nasty hyperlink here.

remember when: a wandering

remember the nights when we were just like this
and i couldn't breath from holding my breath in my chest
beating like a drum like a rain dance like clapping thunderclouds
and no rain came
remember the nights that you never told me about
and i sat in the dark
the rug sparking around my feet like a tiny storm of commets
falling in the blackness behind my open eyes
and i sat
remember the nights when i called and left messages
that you never heard under the clamor
of voices and promises and tipping chins and screams
that i could not give voice to
in thirty seconds after a mechanical beep
so i said nothing
remember the nights when i waited and waited for the shower
and heat mixed with cold pounding drops
on my back and my knotted head of hair from shaking my head
no over and over in your eyes in my head
but i meant it
remember the nights like a spilled glass of water
i slipped from myself spilled out myself on the floor
unvacuumed for weeks, the dust settling in the emptiness
of your voice and
oh so many
poems about emptiness
and shit that happens
but really doesn't
but it feels like it
happens
and hurt this much
i'm exaggerating for no reason
except for to give reason
to the sick i feel
growing like a
living, breathing
lump
in my large intestines
and any other organs
that i can remember from
middle school.

it was...

snow falling in Spring
sunshine delay, it is a
cocomotion day
~jenny

Bill@moviegallery

grey sweatpants & hair combed with too much oil
picking videos from the gallery
wire racks plastic dvd backs stickers
eclipse critics blurbs & the literature
printed covering designs of Gothica

the Shining & House of 1000 Corpses.
x-box games washed down by Mountain Dew
video screen glues childs eyes freezes
development or enhances cordination
he was me is my past friday nights

under pixelated light where first person
shooting stars could wash away empty basement
walls & only the open rafters of the ceiling
could capture in virtual reality
true glowing reds of a perfect fall

crunching leaves dissolve into lines
of code & controllers become hands
held guiding past minefields of brown
neon yellow flashes avoidable
& replayable after lifelines dried

& drained bottomed out a game over
over played paused & returned in tiny
plastic coffins to graveyard galleries
passed on pressed play graduated high
school end of days.

the final four

made this from newspaper & final four bracket
read it up down left right & following the brackets.

item 1

under white pressure
torrent blasts same hard-to-reach
control flakes away

I want to be a space ship
I want to be a glass of water
I want to be a nightstand
I want to be a cherry tree
I want to be a deck of cards
I want to be a low tide
I want to be a reoccurring dream
I want to be a freshly painted wall
I want to be a spelling bee word
I want to be a fingernail moon
I want to be an unmade bed
I want to be a parenthese on a page of periods
I want to be a flat wooden water ice spoon
I want to be a pair of new cotton socks
I want to be a chocolate chip
I want to be a library card
I want to be a nightlight
I want to be a padoodle
I want to be an icicle hanging off a roof
I want to be a smile
I want to be a trampoline
I want to be a bare foot

i want to be an acorn
i want to be a library ink-jet printer
i want to be a blue mochila
i want to be a pocket note book
i want to be a vending machine bag of pretzels
i want to be a mouse
i want to be a colonial fleet viper
i want to be lost kitten flyer
i want to be a photo album
i want to be a DVD set commentary track
i want to be a crack in the pavement
i want to be a pair of slippers
i want to be a myspace profile
i want to be a mac computer
i want to be a banned poem
i want to be a thumbtack in a bulletin board
i want to be an unabridged dictionary
i want to be a pool diving board
i want to be a spyglass
i want to be a black manual typewriter
i want to be a post it note
i want to be a signpost on the Champs Elysées
i want to be an autumn sweater

some work/movable type/which work

cat sunning itself in pure bright
luminous checkered floor

i forgot time yesterday till it
became today

shifting sleeping positions from perfect
to perfect 10 minutes before alarm

first cup of tea steeped
for 5 plus 2 sugar splash milk

movie into spotlights sprayed over grains
of wooden floorlined cats

dress yourself the way
mother wouldn’t

drink vanilla silk soy milk
with oats & more cereal

pavement sparkles with rising sun &
weekends broken memories

adjusting indoor & outdoor temperature
& lighting

spots form after moving out of sun
into bedroom dimly lit

soundtrack of alarm clock radio starts
“institutions like a big bright light”

social radar shows
shy eyes & untied shoes

but it is your assignment you
have to do it

a new haircut & trip to
thrift store for secondhand comforts

its nice of you to show up
and grace us with your presence

not conversationalising between classes &
never just stopping by
how was your break and how
are your little brother and sister?

twenty cups of tea later i still
feel cold inside

A Choice

I am submitting smell of paper for an english award, but i can submit one other poem.
Which should it be & why.

Choice #1
Train set

We lived in a Plasticville
1950’s train-spotting suburbia,
carefully planned out transit lines
from church to train store
to
basement to attic—the town
mapped out in Dad’s mind while
working on the paper-maché Murray Hill,
no commute time or heart attacks here-
just,
the reassuring placement-
a Pullman-town all the same,
tiny green trim lawns, Francis
Lewis Boulevard stretching
through
kids playing ball, collecting
coins and stamps, Mother
calls for dinner at six
o’clock on the dot pot roast
a
dream watching difference
clack by—CNJ, PRR,
RDG, NYC—a road named birthplace
and design, each boxcar
a
colour coded conformity to
place and time,
streaking by,
the blinking gated crossing line,
a
protective measure
to keep children’s hands back—
held and guided—always
mathematical, sincere.

Choice #2
Columbus Day—phone call.

First, and always, the five
unanswered rings—Mom, Doc
Cherylin, Amy, Greg—all busy

in worlds of planned painting,
perfect To Do lists done, preschool leaf
collection and a single teenager

still and sitting—
avoidance techniques fully practiced—as
she hooks into the net downstairs

connecting her everywhere but there.
And the echo
ring of a missing son

picked up by recorded greetings—
a frozen moment of informed politeness—
This is the Schroeder and

Tiefel residence please leave
a message with your name and number
and we will get back to you—

I studder in the twenty
seconds given to me twenty seconds to
tell them my wants and needs

twenty seconds to properly greet
an empty house listening to mumbled
words cut off—

I call back. They
are there aware of the part—
the sixth unanswered ring—missing nothing about

the homefront normalcy preplanned
weekend spending sprees and family
meetings miles away.

They lay it on me thick.
Why don’t you visit? Why
don’t you come home

celebrate the day of discovery—
Columbus’s great journey—with
pumpkin picking and uneasy

dinnertime banter, where I only
eat side dishes, watching sister Cherylin
battle for identity and freedom

I have and take for granted.
I will stay.
I will toast Columbus and

his three ships of discovery.