Sunday, February 19, 2017

mmdcxc

Whatever It Is, It Isn’t

clear anymore.  Furniture
that reaches out to you
in the middle of the
afternoon on a night
when you need desp-
erately to go to the
bathroom to pee
or to the kitchen
to guzzle a pint
of ice water.
“Wake up,”
laughs B’rer
Rabbit as he
dives into the
patch of black-
berry briars below,
“come along with me
this instant.  It’s an
adventure!” And
then he disappears. 
I’ve even the bloody
scratches to prove it.


                this poem is inspired by Susie Timmons’ “Into the Stickers”
                and the following Google Link Titles, neither of which I ever bothered to click:
                a) Brambles Gone Wild: How to Remove Blackberries – Tall Clover Farm
                b) How to Eradicate Blackberry Bushes; and
                c) How to get rid of blackberries – YouTube

Saturday, February 18, 2017

mmdclxxxix

I’ve Got the Keys to a Brand New Saturday

So hop in
if you’d
like to
ride.

Friday, February 17, 2017

mmdclxxxviii

We stare at each other like ghosts of another century
                                                        —Ronald Palmer

“It could be they are from separate centuries,” Ron’s
written word whispers to me (without ink, should I add?).
“Instead of two ghosts, say, from the 17th century, which
isn’t ours?”  No response.  At least for a while.  And then
I clearly hear “Hours?  Two, that is precise and correct.”  I’ve

not just been dreaming (I’ve said this aloud while sitting
up sharply in my weather-worn bed.  In this dreamlessness –
and with this quick snap from lying prone becoming a ninety
degree angle and with a voice I am certain – because there’s
that stolen sentence lying without much discretion,

tucked away amid other words in them, the solid book 
held firmly within the grip of both of my hands, and now,
directly above us – an epigraph, so to speak. I intro-
duce to you this, my story.  Anyway, as I might’ve
already said....  Black gold sinks heavily into many

hundreds of thousands of acres of a place called U.S.A.
circa the early 2000s.  This becomes the hub (and the
hubbub) of some importance at the time.  I can’t be
certain why.  Perhaps Ms. Notley knows (and I swiftly
scribble a note to myself to inquire something to that

effect).  I’ve an infection of the pancreas.  Or maybe
it’s the liver.  This becomes important at the time.
I’m not sure why.  Scholars of history (and, therefore,
of ever subject once known trying to fit into a pair of
academia), often passed along history books as auto

biographies.  This is known.  This was obvious
to all but most.  In a world where, nearby, say,
in the next galaxy and unbeknownst to the tepid
inhabitants of all of this rather deviant rogue
of a planet’s tepid inhabitants (which included

the fevered, the feeble, and the dead, asnwell as
those who most often worked at will [and a few,
legend has it, unwillingly, or at least subconsciously]
slicing and dicing the so-called earth, clearly part
icipating in its early demise ... [a small coughing sound 

is heard from several audience members]) ... anyway,
as I mentioned earlier to one in particular, nearby, say
in an adjacent galaxy, who'd never heard tell of this rogue
of a planet’s surly inhabitants (the fevered, the feeble,
the dead, and the so-called ‘toiling’— all murder[er]s,

and mutter[er]s, mind you.   Anyway, as I might’ve already said...

Thursday, February 16, 2017

 mmdclxxxvii

    Indigestion   
    (later that
   same night)


A pain in the ass
is worth two in the
bush doesn’t even
begin to hack it
until you try it!
Get it?  I’m so
happy for you.
(If only I got it....)
Eating escargot
[late drum riff,
awkward giggles]
at the conference,
I thought of Rome,
where the hallway
entrance was made
completely of the
animals we and
our favorite rest-
aurant’s guests
would profoundly
digest later, during
bouts of uneasy
sleep.  We would,
earlier, of course,
finally eat.  Per-
haps because we
were so alive then.
It was a five-star
entrance, that
hallway. We were,
as they often say
in Bolivia, super-
duper-entranced.


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

mmdclxxxvi

misother brother

“don’t do that!”
he says, meaning

enter the trans
america pyramid

tower    all out
of shape      sees

worried fav
orite entry 

doorway to the 
other shore

Friday, December 23, 2016

mmdclxxxv

I have not forgotten
we sound
the same when we say the same things like people of a certain time.  As if
history were not over.
                                                                       —Laura Moriarty


(part two)

“What’s on the list for today?”
like not knowing a thing
about a great uncle as he passes
in the middle of mostly crying

‘family’ holding their hands in
an obvious imperfect circle around 
his death, or how could we ever know
almost any normal event in my life,

(and speaking as a an actor – 
am I working toward a more
earned and reasonable hypothetical 
or is just my take), what is the pose or

the tic or the spirit that alerts the lie?
To anyone listening or paying attention.
How diminished that quality is, no matter 
your existence, no matter the audience.  

Do some find this irrelevant?  Certainly!
I see the hands, I hear the protests.  So 
of course you do, too.  But let’s say I barely
know myself.  What is this path

towards ‘trust’ (that comfortability
we find in certain others/that
comfortability I find by myself? 
Occasionally....)?

Teach me, oh Great Nobody, the
pose that gives the ‘appearance’
of listen, I am being real(!!).  That in
fact(?), perhaps, I am even being myself.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

mmdclxxxiv

I have not forgotten
we sound
the same when we say the same things like people of a certain time.  As if
history were not over.
                                                                       —Laura Moriarty


(part one)

“What’s on the list for today?”
I look back and forth in
terror, searching for anything.
“We’ve got years to get it
done,” I look back and forth

the manner less spastic.  These
last words are balm, a staunch
for the deepest of cuts which
only allow a minute or two of
more life.  A sad fly zips by in

disgust.  If we start with the
premise that every single indi-
vidual lies (quite literally, the
entire embodiment of our spec-
ies depends on it in a way, it

is built into culture, it is written
in Amy Vanderbuilt, the circum-
stances sometimes quite elaborate
and fun; or guilt-inducing).  Be the
person you are, but I prefer ease

and an amalgamation of real 
and fun, I value honest and ...
reality (the former, from my
test runs, most especially) 
but, I'm a liar.  By necessity at
times, using etiquette others.  

At other times, or just because
I’d rather for whatever the
reason, perhaps even out of
spite, quell my truth, or with
which I seem no longer familiar


with it...