mmmmdclxxxiii

As young men do, old men never say.

     ...and I’ll tell you it’s not going to get easier,
        only harder.
                                         —John Ashbery

I told you it wasn’t the end of the world.
Your trust is imaginary, and affords me
quite the generous stipend. Down is not
South, Up is not North. Trust me, I saw

numerous medical professionals about
my ongoing vertigo throughout the
1990s. We look up and down trying to
find someone of age. Finally, we take

the bus to the station, get out, walk
all the way back home. Then we go
to dinner, some fish place. I had the
steak with pommes frites, you had an

Orange Julius and a side of bacon.

mmmmdclxxxii

You Have Good Follow-Through

     I’m so sorry these are inexcusable.
                                  —John Ashbery

There, I said it, he thought, as he was
transported by this very palatable teevee
show about a disgusting and horrible 

subject. Episode 3, for which they 

must hand out awards.  Men can 

be such tender kissers. Who likes
bruises? Oh. Yeah. Sorry.

mmmmdclxxxi

(our secret state)

Could this be the destruction that I

have always said I wanted?  The

tearing up of my life as if it were

a sheet of paper, tossing those

pieces into the breeze that kicks

up just as this tattered life is strewn.

In terms of death, of reincarnation,

I could find a scientist who’d somehow

be able to calculate the improbability

that any shred from the sheet of

parchment that was once me

could ever find again even one

of the other torn pieces (that

again, cumulatively was once 

me). Anyway, death comes

to us all, supposedly.  

So. Is it too late to say to you, 

to plead with you, to humbly 

beg of you this: 

Please, kindly, might you

avoid ripping me into shreds?

mmmmdclxxx

I am the spirit of a stapler in a castle full of paper doves.

This is less a story about torture than
it is one about productivity. For a few
months, I worked in factories. First
a toy factory. Next came a cardboard

factory. Other conveyor lines came
along afterwards. I had learned
to find in these repetitions as much
comedy as I could muster. I say

muster. And there was often
exhaustion. The comedy, I’d
suggest, required less effort
as time passed. And soon I’d

manifest it, in the manner of
a comedian, I suppose. It was
a distraction, of course. I would
work bits of physical humor,

build jokes into routines and
mold them ever nearer to
perfection. With no real
audience, I could not relay

to you which of these I got
better at over the years, nor
whether or not I got good at
either. On that, you’d be a much

better judge. But I continue to 
put things together at the speed
with which all of the parts come
at me, and package the finished

product up as nicely as I can into
its ready-made box, all the while
doing my stand-up routine, which
has evolved considerably as I’ve

practiced extensively. And I have
learned to do two things at once.
And also, how to forget I’m doing 

one task by distracting myself 

with the other, whichever one I
happen to find the more tedious

at any given moment.

mmmmdclxxix

We’re Here

I’ll be watching a lot of this with my
eyes closed. It does not mean I’m
not excited about what’s happening,
in a good way. Ecstatic about it, even.

We’ve obviously arrived at some new
place. It’s an elevation, relatively lofty,
but is not be taken for granted. I will
find ways to enjoy it, though. In a

celebratory way. And I certainly
encourage you to do the same.
That cannot be forced, of course,
and so as I go about relishing,

cherishing where it is we’ve gotten,
I’ll be a top-notch example of how
best to celebrate, to show just how
it can be done. In doing so, I fully

intend to remain humble, yours.

mmmmdclxxviii

The Rigors of Mortality

Seems like forever I’ve been anxious
to rid myself of anxiety. I remember
clearly realizing that it was the root
of so many of my problems. I also
can’t forget the first time I was
successfully able to eradicate it
so wholly for a duration of time.

It turns out that after somewhere
near a decade of an extraordinary
amount of stress, I’ve reached a
sort of stasis, am more steadily
relaxed, less worried, and I
can’t exactly account for why
this is, but I imagine it has
something to do with the
fact I have been living for
such a long time, ten years
or so, feeling that no matter 

how or what I try, no matter
how much effort I expend,
I have been unable to 

manage to reach
a singular goal.

Should I say a life goal? I have
managed to eat. I have always
found a place to sleep. That
place did not always include
a roof, but it was a place
where I slept. There were
numerous places. The only
routine that I managed to
keep that I’d had before,
besides things like breathing
and sleeping, etc., I suppose,
was that I wrote. I wrote 

through it all, the entirety of it;
sure, some months more than 

others, but I always wrote.

And as I read through what I
have written, as I’ve been doing,
even recording each of these
pieces, the poems—how
hard is that to say?—I do it
every day, these days.  I do
hold some significant app

reciation of having something

knowable, something showable,
that is an accomplishment,
it is a thing I can puff myself up 

a bit about, but up until the
past couple of months,
that had been about it.

Now, after all of that, 

I’ve reached two very

happy goals.  These 

are things I’ve worked
for years apiece to 

achieve. These are
perhaps tiny, relative 

to other durations in this
life, a life for about which 

I’m somehow still grateful.
But it has only dawned
on me, just in the past
couple of days, how
huge passing the 

threshold and

reaching these

goals has been.

Anyway, so I write. But
there’s this bit of tension,
some concern, not exactly
stress, about what it is I
should write now. But I
suppose it doesn’t matter,
as I know I will nevertheless
continue to write. It’ll be
something. It doesn’t have
to point me in any new
directions, give me any
bold ideas, but it’s my
through-line, and has
been a tremendous
help, not just therapy;
creativity, opening my
eyes to see things.  There
fore, I’ll then keep going,
and I keep thinking daily 

can be dull, so when or 

if it’s dull, I motivate, I 

move, I try to make 

the best of anything,
improving, or
just moving.

(A dull boom.)

mmmmdclxxvii

A Wilted Face Over A Bowtie

How often shall I retire is a question
that used to come up quite a bit. I’d
throw a retirement party. That’s what
it was. It was right there on the invite.

The next time I’d throw one it was
mostly the same people who were
sent invitations. They’d generally all
show. But nobody bothered to ask.

Retire from what? is a question that’s
been on my mind a lot lately. What
have I ever done, though? Let’s
assume that the cliché is real, that

the daily grind is a necessity that
we can otherwise just call filler.
Useless except for survival. I’m
not sure what I was thinking about

when I considered retiring. At times
I can recollect what I do and when
that happens I’m reminded that
there’s a lot of it. Do I want what

I do to end? Then what?  What
will there be to do? I like that
feeling when I wake up every day
thinking time to do what’s got to

be done. There’s a lot of heart
and soul that is put into this,
the anxiety of the day, the
worrying about deadlines,

the wondering whether or not
I will have the capacity, the
steamrolling through it with
occasional confidence. I was

thinking of throwing a party.
It’s been a while. I wonder
what I’d call it. You know
how when you have a job,

you’re employed, and with
some regularity you have
these meetings that are
called performance reviews,

or somesuch? What are
your most significant
accomplishments this
year, this quarter, since

you’ve joined the firm,
whatever? There are
these measured
durations. I know I

stay busy, my work
ethic is good and I’m
certainly not out to
screw the system or

the mechanism or
anything. But that’s
a question that always
leaves me dumbfounded.

I hear it, there’s a bit of
an echo in my head as the
words bounce around in there,
and I begin to sort of burn with

embarrassment, a sensation
that starts at the bottom of
my neck and works its way
upwards. And I imagine a

decent metaphor for me when
I’ve been asked that question is
a young deer, the moment its eyes
catch sight of a pair of headlights.

mmmmdclxxvi

What to do about writing machine?

The concrete’s too cold, but we do it
anyway, such buds in winter. Winter
buds. Too frozen to ever bloom, us.

I remember your skin from twenty-
five years ago because I just read
a description of it in a poem. You

have such astute admirers. Let’s
not make this past tense just to
be that magician conjuring up

a non-existent past. I’m talking
philosophically, because look at
us now, all tied up in the knots

of what you always remind me
I so indelicately call our
Armageddon. Neither

of us are trophy brokers
trying to one-up the other
with praise (unless it’s

intended to smother);
we’re too truthy by
half. But don’t we

both remember
decorum? Or
is that me

doing another
no-no, making
a new boo-boo,

dishing up the
nostalgia I’ve
been preaching

so steadfastly
against at least
ever since I

began these
farce-ridden
remarks

atop this
feloniously 

fake page.

mmmmdclxxv

Be Specific About How Alone You Want To Be

I can’t even write without thinking what a pain
in the ass. You know who you want to be. So
that puts me at a distinct disadvantage. Or
used to?

I’m so solidly on board with this game of
strategy you picked up and decided to
bring home. It’s not that you’re being
cocky about your confidence,

but it’s more that you just want to
finish me off. And not in a good
way (he says, one foot in the
grave).

How bravely I endured,
I heard the cat say
as she coughed
up a hairball.

mmmmdclxxiv

I Still Make Good Time

I don’t want to tell you anything. This
dream I’ve had of coming out of my
shell. Was my body always in here?
The brunt of it, I mean. I poke my

head out to peer around at the
places these legs have taken me.
I’ve always been drawn to windows,
occasionally coming to cognizance

having gotten lost staring out over
and upon the rooftops of the seedy
part of town, or searing into the
tiny garden behind the house

next door. There’s never anyone
there. Just that square splash of
color that’s filled with flowers and
vegetables, and if my eyesight

were better, or maybe I had a
pair of binoculars, I’m sure I
could find its imperfections,
create a profile of my

gardening neighbor who is
never home. As I am, though,
when I catch myself coming
back into focus, such colorful

jungles harboring sights the
likes of which I’ve never been,
these weary eyes have never
seen. Or else I’ve been

transported for however long,
(hours, sometimes?) to the
old pasture’s pond, a fishing
hole from my childhood, where

with rod and reel in hand and
sitting as quietly as I could back
then it seemed I never caught
a thing. All afternoon into the

evening, however, I’d be
squishing worms onto hooks,
or else piercing minnows just
below the spine. Then out the

line would go, with a cork that
barely bobbed. Even then I’d
get lost, my eyes not quite
doing their job, as my mind

wandered to anywhere but
there. What can I tell you?
That this has always been me.
Too lazy to astral project (I’d

mention the books I’d always
have on my person, no matter
where I was or wasn’t, more
often than not, were science

fiction), but nevertheless a
wanderer, a nomad from
way back. When given the
choice to live in the present

or drift away, exercising,
in essence, nothing but
my imagination....
But there were times—

mmmmdclxxiii

The Perils of Courting Friendship with Heroes

I highly recommend it. No matter what.
You learn so much. At least I did. Sure,
a pedestal upon which we figuratively
place anyone we may think we know or
want to know or are absolutely convinced
of their deity is bound to be a skewed view,
likely to be attacked by jackasses wielding
axes. My attempt at relaying that word,
jackasses, is about as earnest as it is
tongue in cheek. Perhaps by suggesting
that I know from daddy issues might
shine a tiny spotlight, or a laser beam

on the limitations of my perspective, 

but for some of us it might hit a tone 

I’d hope appropriate. But is the most
important reason to seek out those
in this world we admire – thinking we
know enough to know and/or perhaps
understand at least on some level
how naive we are to refuse to even
doubt the validity that our dear
hero could ever be but whomever
they are which makes us so con

fident in our admiration – to 

become acquainted enough 

that we might emulate them 

in as absolute manner as is

possible? Now that I’m as old 

as a few heroes of my own were

when I was gifted the occasion to 

know them personally, I say no.
In fact, I was fortunate enough to
become friends with two or three
of these folks, the gods I grew up
worshipping, the folks I admired
so much I sometimes wanted to
be, the writers whose verses I
flipped and tripped so wildly within
that I got to where I could practically

mimic. Yet if there is a recurring
theme from the times I spent in
conversation and camaraderie and
even, in some cases, in friendship,
that template of perfection that I
so believed I saw in each of those 
I chose to idolize, no matter
where I might have been in
my own life as I got to know
the person behind whatever
that set of expectations of my
own might have been, was in
all cases a significant distance 

from the actual person with 

whom I would become 

acquainted – and the 

more time I got to

spend with each, the
further apart reality
would grow from that
original idealized notion.
The more you know of
anyone, the closer you
get a sense of the foibles
you inevitably find annoying

or disturbing or outrageous,
the more aware you become
of an individual’s flaws. And,
sure, that can be a pretty
devastating revelation at
which to arrive. But the

funny thing about getting 

a more well-rounded
and clearer idea, by 
way of a kinship that
can generally only
be had by a significant
duration of time spent
together, an intimacy
which I have come to
know is not only rare
to have with anyone,
but for better or worse 

is an absolute treasure.
To have with a person

you have come to know
from as far back as
you have believed them
to be an example of the
finest that humanity has
to offer is a profound thing.
It is enlightening on so many

levels, highest among them

being discovering these 

flaws, these imperfections, 

whether they are small and 

relatively insignificant or

they loom so large, so prob

lematic to you that it becomes
impossible for you to ever
think of that person, even

perhaps long after they have 

departed our lives, without

seeing that conflict; we

are stripped of the capability

of separating the upsetting 

qualities from everything 

positive about your hero=

turned-acquaintance/friend. 

Now I am not saying this is the

only motivation one should use

in order to seek such interaction

with those you consider so highly

from afar. But, in my opinion, it is
an invaluable thing to experience.
It’s the people you care about,
the ones you love, who are always
going to disappoint you the most.
For you know them. While such
disappointment might bring folks
you love and adore back down
closer to the ground upon which
you yourself tread, that has never
for me been so tragic a thing
as to minimize my friendship
or love with these people, nor
does it make me less grateful
for what I’ll always consider 

the amazing good fortune 

of getting the opportunity, 

that precious, rare chance 

to know anyone, especially

those individuals that rank 

among those I have admired

the most, on an intimate level—

when it has happened, it has always

been such an extraordinary gift.

mmmmdclxxii

Apologies For Going Off Radar

Sorry for running away. Sorry for
going off the grid the entire time
I was in the Southern Hemisphere.

Sorry for all of the worship. Sorry
for being a pacifist (and bypassing
all warships). Sorry for being a

nincompoop. Sorry for being so
versatile. Sorry for the humor. I
apologize for being so damned

hilarious. Sorry about your mom.
Sorry about my dad. Sorry about
the whole gay thing. Sorry for not

being an adult until I was in my mid-
thirties. Sorry that you weren’t born
until after my mid-thirties. Just kid

ding, not really sorry about that one.
Sorry not sorry. Sorry, Aunt Jeanne
and Uncle David, for throwing rice

on the two of you as you exited the
church after Aunt Patti’s wedding.
Sorry about divorce. In general.

Sorry about the whole good versus
evil dichotomy. Do you think it’s
okay not to be apologetic about

how fun it is to be “bad” some
times? Sorry about the heated
“debates.” Sorry about the non-

violence. Sorry about Jimmy
Carter. Sorry about Nancy
Reagan and Tipper Gore.

I’m really sorry about
politics. Sorry I’ve be
come such a hermit.

Sorry that I have so
many things I’m sorry
about. Sorry for 2025.

mmmmdclxxi

Have I moved at all

since we last poked?

mmmmdclxx

And don’t roll over and play dead.

It isn’t how to keep youth. Dear God,

please kindly force into my memory

the feelings I felt when I wrote “I’m

enjoying the company of the hottest

love-making ever.” No amen just yet

as I’m dead serious. And don’t be a

genii about it, either. I should maybe

therefore rephrase. Please put in my

self the actual whatever it was I felt

that had me writing that. Or was it

all just a fiction? Fake news? Do I

really do that? “All too often,” says

God, and I remember the foreign words

you purportedly burned out of those con

crete tablets, which might have said

something about lying to your neighbor 

or lying with your neighbor’s wife, right? 

I was not there, and am not fluent in the

language.  But I am definitely not a 

lie.  No fiction am I.  At least not

that I'm aware of.  Growing up,

however, all of my neighbors 

were elderly.  There were no

eligible bachelors in the

vicinity of my youth.

But as life has pro

gressed, I have become

more aware, which oddly

has coincided with becoming

less sure of any truths I might

ever have thought I knew, less

clear in conviction, especially with

regard to right versus wrong, good

versus evil.  But from all the way

back then until this quiet and

present moment, me sitting

here in the dead of a hot

night, I am repeatedly

reminded of this, or

at least it seems

more valid to 

me than ever:

one can strive

for a lifetime

to attempt to

become whom

ever you most 

desire in this 

world, but

you can 

never be

that person,

nor can you

possess him.

mmmmdclxix

Something Different Happens

I don’t want to tell you anything
about it. This is a new sensation.

Also, I don’t want you to mention
it. Anything about it. That’d be

what you call a spoiler alert, and
I’ll have none of that. Sometimes,

of course, it can’t be helped. And
this is when being a hermit, tucked

into this hotbox of a coffin-shaped
apartment at most every hour of

the day and night comes in handy.
But then I must avoid the news.

And YouTube. And talking to my
guy, with whom for over five years

now I’ve spoken with, often in an
engaging manner, but also often

in a manner in which I take up
all of the airwaves, pretty much

every single day.  At least once,

but usually more often.  And

that’s not even counting all

of our texts. Usually he

doesn’t seem to mind, me

hogging the microphone,

I mean. But sometimes…

sometimes I can see that 

he’s grasping for any tiny bit 

of that air, because he has a

thing or two to say, himself.
Oh, how I love engagement.

Especially with such people,

the stars in my life, the few

that I hold near and dear, are
of utmost importance. On rare

and very special days a bit
of an upside down abnormal

thing transpires: he’s got a
story, sometimes several,

that he’s determined to tell
me, and he does so in such

a way that is at a pace I’d
call andante but it is abs

olutely deliberate. And 

what’s more, if there is 

any attempt on my part 

to interject, to comment

on any of it, he promptly
plows through whatever

it was I was saying. I’d
call that karma.  And

also, and most import

antly, it’s a very astute

characteristic. Meaning
he knows me. But these

instances are rare. And
a joy to behold. No

matter whether or not
I can’t help but try (to

no avail) to selfishly
comment or interject.

Oh, the chaotic balance

of the gemini mind– here

I was, at least at first,
speaking of my own

reticence. Another rarity

for me, reticence. The But

I am learning.  Anyway,

my reason for holding back,

for not wanting to talk,

had to do with the fact that

there’s another whodunnit
I’ve gotten hooked into,

and tonight’s the season
finale. And I don’t want to

talk about it, to accidentally
happen upon a spoiler alert,

I want to just experience it
without any preconceived

notions. But, to be 100%
honest, I’d more than

happily watch this finale
with the one person I quickly

and so tangentially began

to mutter on about above,

whether he was quiet as a
mouse as we watched, glued

to the set, or even if he was
in one of those rare talkative

spirits. I’d listen to all of the
spoilers that could be uttered

without even flinching, I’d
enjoy his company so. But

tonight, it’s just me and
my teevee. Now…whodunnit?

mmmmdclxviii

Just Your Average Middle-Aged Riddle

If you’re old enough to be middle-aged
you can remember when that meant
men half your age driving cherry-
colored sports cars with the tops
down and how that meant they 

were overcompensating for a little 

something underwhelming in the 

“bedroom department.” Just this 

morning, for example, a guy 

comes to a screeching halt

in his mommy’s driveway just
to tell his adolescent kid sister
“What’s a poor boy to do,
Genevieve?” Like the pre
cocious child she is, Gen
gets the words that mean
different kinds of generally
red-colored fruit mixed up

when trying to proclaim the

bright color of the new car
and is completely unaware,

or has conveniently forgotten,
that her big brother, who
Mommy insists Gen call
Great Uncle, is actually
the father the poor girl 

never knew. And good 

thing, too, given that 

today is Genevieve’s 

birthday and she’s dying 

to see what Great Uncle, 

whose sports machine is 

pristinely clean, both inside 

and out, unlike the family’s 

modern, elevated terrace, has 

brought her for her birthday. 

Uncle has come direct from

the charity car wash
(because it’s cheap
and thorough).
When Gen waddles
over to the car that’s
so bright Mommy’s
suggested she break
out the sunscreen,
else head on over into
the shaded verandah,
Uncle practically screams
something about no
fingerprints on the 

new wax job. He’s
no idea it’s his
granddaughter’s
birthday. Not
that he would
have went about
the business of his
day any differently
if he’d known. Mommy
notices the birds, how
they’re flying extra low
today, and wonders if
some winged puff of 

a varmint with who

knows what mite-

ridden disease has

gone and built
another nest
in the old
oak that
takes up
most of the

airspace in 
the front yard.

Her face is

the veritable

definition of

grimace for

the duration

of her elderly

brother’s visit.

mmmmdclxvii

Lobstering Consumer Spending

You’d think I was about the business
of bolstering things, but I’m so sun
burnt I am walking sideways all day,
sort of bringing my thumbs and
forefingers together in the way of
Mister or Ms. Pacman. There aren’t
any colorful ghosts, or Skittles or
those old-school bottle caps to eat
with my thumbs and forefingers,
but I’m so hungry, and I want to
go shopping. I was never a big
fan of shopping. Shopping end
lessly, that is. I exhaust easily
when it comes to department
stores or Banana Republic or
even Target. It was, well, yes,
I didn’t paint my hands and
fingers yellow or anything,
but they were hungry, too.
When consumers no longer
have anything to spend,
there is no easy means 

for which to obtain food.
And one needs to eat. I 

did the dine and dash thing 

once, during the height of my 

two year bout with homeless

ness (it was during the six
months of those years

that I lived on the street
while working in a cubicle
weekdays during regular
business hours. It weren’t
fun.) – after that job was
over, by the way, it was
June, and it was one of
the coldest summers in
San Francisco during 

the 25 years I’ve lived
here. Anyway, I was 

sleeping on the 

Franklin Street

sidewalk next to 

the Opera House, 

More on that

sometime, surely.
All I’m saying is,
how does one eat
when one has
no money? The
thing is, I know
ways. In fact,
the three odd top 

things that I found to 

be surprisingly easy

to obtain when I

lived with no home 

were: 1) there’s

always food to be 

had; 2) one can 

find clothes – even
business attire – 

quite readily; and

3) one can manage
having almost per
fect medical cover
age. And I am 

saying that each

of these things 

can be had without
paying a dime.
Or that was

certainly my

experience.

mmmmdclxvi

A Person’s Second
Sexual Revolution

It was more about breaking
barriers Built by growing up
in one of those semi-ideal – it
really depends on who you ask

but if you ask me I’d say I was
quite appreciative of the fact
that I grew up in a rural southern
area with all of its mostly close-

minded stereotypes. But there
was such amazing leeway, and
if you had always been a bit of a
goody-goody if you waited later

than most it’d wind up being
something ideal to most every
one, your new nastier or more
well-rounded behavior. In my

case it came as last as after
graduation from 12th grade
and involved such things as

having a girlfriend for the f

first time, not having a clue
about my actual sexuality,
it was the early 1980s in
smalltown Arkansas and

the curiosity, if even the
slightest aggressive, would
paire with the up-to-now
and good old boy naivete,

which made for a bit of
a bonus. So suddenly,
add alcohol or pot
and suddenly you

might possible do
anything you want
sexually with whom
ever you want, and

when there is con
sense, what amazing
fun! But then comes
the second sexual

revolution, it
could come when
you’re in anywhere
in your 40s to 60s,

most likely, i’d say.
and the first thing
you might notice is
what a hard edge it

has to it. and how
much more exhausting!
if it’s just happenstance,
then that can be diving.
but if it’s something you

find yourself putting a
lot of work into, how
exuasting! in that
latter case you’ll

find that it’s an
incredibly hard
climb, it’s tons
of tremendous work

and, here’s the real
clencher, there’s a lot
of preparation and
planning involved.

If you want to
make it really
happen, if you’re
one of those people

who generally expects,
inevitably, to have it
end in some action (my
god, if you’re not,

please keep your
distance from me,
just in case some
crazy notion night

arise), well I have so
little experience with this
second kind of intimacy
that I am as of yet

undecided regarding
whether any part of
that process is worth
a damn. But if it

isn’t, then what on
earth would that mean,
what’d be an approp
riate next step. I’m

so split
between

the two
so comp
lately
different
types of
getting it
on that,

much as I wanna say
it’s a treat either way,
I am just not entirely
Sure whether there

is any need for
part two. Any
ideas on how
to live if one

opts out? Or
does anyone
have any al
ternative ways

to get there
that might re-
create the fun
and naivete

again, can
make it
more fun?
Serious question.

mmmmdclxv

The Joke-Stick

it’s a tool that
measures, but
it’s also a point
of reference. it’s

pointy and stick-
like. it’s not the
kind of stick you’d
like to lick, like,

say, a popsicle
stick or a fish
stick. it’s really
not something

you might act
ually use, like
a drumstick
(the ones used

on percussive
instruments
rather than
the leg of a

chicken) or a
matchstick,
because a
joke-stick

resides some
where within
my brain, or
whatever runs

what’s me.
which doesn’t
make it imagin
ary, exactly,

but something
half real and
half unreal, i’d
say, like a

ghost, perhaps,
or like hunger
or thirst or a
goal, maybe,

a bright idea.

mmmmdclxiv

3 Thang & A Tater

Drunk down w/
hogwash. Taste
bud stroke of
tanned meringue.

Potluck a hoot:
a medley of fruit
soaked in Cool
Whip, casserole

of beans green,
whimsical assort
ment of sandwich
meats. Pray for

a doggie tray to
bring back to
the shack. Zap
a corndog for

midnight
snack that
harks back to
a hungry dog

on leash who
caught wind of
the wiener,
barks back.

mmmmdclxiii

If He Old He Ageless

Welcome to the future!
[Insert present year here.]
Please allow me to explain.
Go back eight years. Look

at my life. Take a picture.
Then come back. I’m con
vinced if you compared
without bias you’d find me

younger now, and with
significance. But I’ll admit
that conviction is fraught
with problems based on

personal perspective,
which lie today as much
as any lie’d be made
tomorrow, and more

than twice as much
as it might’ve yes
terday when I
was but elderly.

mmmmdclxii (2)

RB

I’m not the most astute, most
logical critical thinker. I’m keen
on saying that logic rules my

life, and I believe that true; 

but I spend a lot of my life 

on the less reasonable side 

of the fence. Most happily. But
it now occurs to me that I’ve
been wrong about something

I have taken for granted, taken
as truth, and I suppose I have 

my reasons for being so, for 

most of my life. Apologies for 

the obscurity of this thought, but

it’s a bit relevant to me. Which,

I’m now thinking mainly is,
more than anything else,
indicative of my age, it’s

probably something that
in even admitting would
surely diminish my

relevance, tiny as it
has no doubt always

already been. Hm...

Now that I am think

ing further about it, 

it seems sensible to

me that I not even
tell you what this
new and still

seemingly absurd
or upside down
revelation is. It

turns out that
I’m not that fond
of feeling tiny,

so my left-brained
sensibility veers
sharply to the

right until a
crash and burn
wipes the slate clean

and I lose track,
forget the path
that got me here

and whatever
the catalyst that
got me going.

mmmmdclxii

Secret Menu

Isn’t this fancy?
I’ll try the pie.

It sounds like
just the thing

to juice up an
evening that

summed up
and averaged

out seems like
most any other.

And off this air
of mystery goes,

or so I say, my
grip still intent

upon the chef’s
until tonight’s

surprise. And
to my delight

the air returns
with something

all but certain
fresh from the

oven and with
sinister sleight

of hand the top
of that special

secret pie’s gone
vertical and is

smashed most
messily over my

pie-shaped face.
Sticking out my

tongue through
sourpuss lips

I find it tastes
delicious as I

scrape a bunch
of it into my

mouth. Peach
pie—oh, my!—

I’d only now
wish for a bit

of ice cream
atop it, atop

me, I find
myself

wanting.
Me, still

here, but
with a bit

of pie stuck
in my eye.

mmmmdclxi

How Next Outdo a Dullness?

How turn a week of boredom
into a comedy in three acts,
or maybe five? When such

a fete is extra tough that’s
when it’s needed most. It’s
a quarter to two in the middle

of night and I sit aslant and
sidewise at my desk (which
I submit as basic evidence

that this life’s in need of
revving up by the humble
admission that by desk I

mean bed) and in such a
contorted anti-ergonomic
crumple I am typing. But

distinctly not revving, as
I—what?—I am at basics
just describing this ennui.

When one becomes so
practiced at shaking up
the system, at disturbing

status quo, then at what
lengths does one in
actuality need to go to

find it once again dis
turbed enough to spike
but even slightly the

adrenaline? Why must
there be this constantly
assessing, reevaluating,

so as to shift approp
riately with altered
velocity in a strange

or yet unknown
direction?

mmmmdclx

Fitness

Fruit
Loops!

An ex
pletive.

Stuck in
My head.

Like the
Fire alarm,

Now, 1am,
Life gets

Interrupted.
Emergency.

Sudden,
Intermittent,

These past
Three years.

Covid. Cancer
Surgery. Knee

Sprain (the
First of these

Real life
Crises). An

As yet diagnosed
Digestion issue

With upwards to
Ten emergency

Room visits
Which ceased

Over a year
Ago. Diabetes.

No more sugared
Cereal for me,

No Fruit Loops 

Nary a carbonated,

Soda, save zero
Sugar varieties.

Routine kicks in.
Pills of a morning.

Pop in to the
Doctor’s office

Every other
Month or so,

Anxiety
Subsiding,

Blood pressure
Regulated,

Cholesterol
Down, tap

A vein for a
Vial or three

To ensure
Clean fuel,

Engine’s
Maintained,

Innards aren’t
Over-taxed.

Meanwhile,
I’m still here

Living well,
Or so it

Seems to
Me, here

At the end
Of this chapter

That still feels
Strange and

New, but I
Know these

Pages they
Turn, this

Light, it
Burns and

I’ve done
My best con

Vincing
Myself

Life’s at its
Best for me

Despite the
Menacing

Moments
And the

Lengthening
Wake that’s

Left, the
Finite

Passages
Of time.

mmmmdclix

At Odds

At this
The end

Of yet
Our

Finest
Month

In
Many

Vanquished
Years

We find
Ourselves

Beset with
Such

Bright
Hopes

& goals
A treasured

Chest of
New

Beginnings.

mmmmdclviii

Minty Pucker

Hello down there!
You’ve hollowed out

Some new caverns,
I see. I’d like to

Address its
Embouchure.

Might I?
Once enveloped

So, the lozenge
Dissolved.

As lozenges do.
And when the

Doors were
Closed,

What’s
Left

Sustains,
Remains

Undressed
A swollen

Mushy
Solid.

mmmmdclvii

Slow Time

The way he moved
From one moment
To the next point

In which his
Existence
Seemed

Reliable