Sunday, December 16, 2018

mmdcccvii

Westward, Ho!

This length  
of time 
(this length!!)
is nothing
that I ever
once en-
visioned,
was une-
quivocally
never part
of any plan
(unless con-
spired). None- 
theless, this
solitude is
what I
choose,
having
seeming-
ly such lit-
tle choice,
as it were.
As it were?
It isn’t.  I
must move
on.  I do.


Saturday, December 15, 2018

mmdcccvi

The Scapegoat

You see me
cocky, scattered
and high when
perfectly sober.
Drawing con-
clusions from
disheveled over-
compensation
makes sobriety
suck.  Quite
simply, it does
not clear the air
between us,
never mind our
heads.  When
supposition
equals real-
ity it's your
withdrawal,
not mine,
that loses
me in the
end.



Thursday, December 13, 2018

mmdcccv

Aleecia’s Words

Wriggly Freckles
at Widow’s Peak
Pointe catches a
spider. Oh yes she
duzz!
Aleecia reck-
ons that’s just the
trouble with kibble
these days. Clumps
of dust is not a meal,
as far as she can see.
And since Freckles is
not a vegan or any-
thing, and her digest-
ion is good (In fact,
it's superior!
says
her vet). It’s just
that her knees are
a bit wobbly. And 
she’s got a bad heart.
But what’s a messed
up ticker, anyway.
We’ve all got some-
thing. And Aleecia
knows a lot about
Bad hearts.
Certainly
enough not
to worry about
such things when
there’s the can-
cer. And the
scourge of
cars that
whiz by The
Lemon Shoppe
day in and day
out. Freckles’
hunger, briefly
expunged by the
spider, hoofs it –
all the way to the
incoming Pacific,
gets wet right up
to her weak knees
and then dances a
tarantella on the beach,
which is beiging from a
swiftly-sinking sun that’s
soon to dusk, so that the
ocher ball is pretty much
aligned with the end-
less, salt-licked sand
making endless love
with the Pacific.  Over-
stuffed boxes of lemons
(with an occasional lime)
are stacked clean up to
the tin-wavered roof
of the nothing fancy
shack that is perched
between the beach below
and Highway One just
above, home of
Freckles.  And of
Aleecia,
who happily
claps the tempo
of the tarantella
as she watches her
companion.  Freckles
the Fancy-Dancer!
she yells down to
the dancing dog,
words that mute
quickly – what
with the whizzing
cars at her back
and the incoming
waves that lap at the
horizon. You’re just
a Fancy-Dancer 
 Oh
yes you are! Each
of Aleecia’s words
go damp, and then
settle somewhere
upon the even-
ing’s spindrift
that blankets
the waves
as far as
her eyes
can see.


Wednesday, December 05, 2018

mmdccciv

I’m Not Alone

Worldwide, fervent belief in conspiracy
theories is at an all-time high, both
in the magnitude of the population who
adhere firmly to the veracity of one
or more, but most radically in the number
of such ‘theories’ assumed 100% true on an
individual level.  I just made this fact up,
to be honest, but it’s only a rhetorical
question.  And because duh.  Back at camp,
we’d always know when it was time for the
party to start when the rebel forcers were
approaching.  Their transportation apparati
were always in stark contrast with those of
ours.  There’s a rhyme and a reason for
everything, as Shakespeare incessantly
attempted to convince his contemporaries.
The announcement was barked over the loud-
speakers:  “The rebel forces are approaching. 
The rebel forces are approaching.”  We’d all
quickly slipped into battle gear, don our epic-
battle-appropriate make-up and then we would
dance for days on end.  I really miss those days.
Sure, there was slavery.  But dancing through
days and nights that moved as slowly and as
deliciously as syrup slowly seeping down through
the middle of a whopping stack of flapjacks
(not to mention the otherworldly plunge
Into each disc of butter, one on top, one on
bottom, and one smashed between the center
of each cake, along with the thousand flak-
jackets seen pulsating through a hallucinatory
mist in contortions that could only have been
locked within mirrors one normally only en-
counters at the county fair (remember those?),
yet were actually dozens of not variations of
the ecstatic raver slipping slowly through the
party’s glorious goo but several dozen meat-
heads from his his own platoon; the rest of
the seemingly endless ultra-hedonistic wide-
eyed party crew.  They were the shit, those
parties.  Certainly enough to give anyone
familiar pause when hearing the variations
on hyperbolic adjectives used years hence
to describe a night (or two) at Studio 54,
for example.  Those men swathed in camo
and dripping with bayonets put today’s
attempts at weekends full of fireworks
and sweat and the so-called slaves of the
circuit to shame. Circuit parties?  Lugubrious
imitations of impossible to render minutia of
a memory of a sliver of time spent slathered
and body-slamming at those war-gatherings
of yore.  Hmmph!  Today’s bodies puffily
jiggling with shame.  No pounding here.  And
those bayonets, which by the bottom of the
cake had found a thousand new meanings,
each one a vast epistimological distance
from any war zone or deep governmental
basement.  Those good old days.

They say it’s interplanetary progeny, a
proliferation of these disproportioned kids,
something the spiritual journals call the
“homogenization” of human-centric and
other human-like species.  Human-like. Ha.
Many of these carry not an ounce of blood,
no watery substance.  And hearts?  We’re
becoming a vein-free galaxy, they say. 
And this is a good thing?!  A culture devoid
not only of the heroism of hedonism and
the inevitable and completely impossible
to describe intertwining of the knives and
the long barrels of the era of bayonets,
but devoid of culture itself.  Talking tubes
incapable of speaking but one language
or of uttering a phrase that isn’t either
selfish or utterly empty.

But this I can say with conviction.  You
can mark my words, as much as one or
two even matter in a moment in time
such as this:  this dearth, these point-
less talking tubes, the homogenization,
despite its funny-looking kids…I tell you
it is but a cover-up for the real story; a
diversion from the plan already being
implemented.  The truth is out there,
all right.  For whatever it’s worth.  And
we’ll all come to know this plan.  Intim-
ately.  And unless there’s anyone in here
who gets everything I’m trying to tell you,
we’ll all, each and every one of us, know
too late of what atrocities this heinous
plan entails.  We’ll know way too late,
I tell you.

But, men, you should all stand with me
on one thing for certain.  Those were
some damn fine parties back then.  So
fine that our wars always brought the
enemies together.  You remember, John.
Surely I’m not alone here. You and I, we’d
be royalty. Royalty, I tell you. It was war.
It was life.  We were the shit.  You remember
Now.  I know you do.  Man, do I ever miss the
war.  Those visions, a camaraderie only the
jungle could ever offer and by far the purest
love any living member of the tribe has ever
experienced, dancing.  Dancing.  The buzz of
war, I tell you. [He clutches his heart like no
tomorrow].  I seriously miss the camo, the slow-
motion camo, the war and its men. I miss them
all something fierce.  Like rear view windows,
like all of those ancient pyramids’ objet’s d’art,
like soft-boiled eggs, like birds, and, oh, eggs,
but more than all of those things combined,
what I miss the most is those good old days.


Thursday, November 29, 2018

mmdccciii

Oct. 30

If I say it,

it is true.

If I say it,

it is true.

My writing

lacks logic.

Like me, you

say, going 

from tid-

bit to tid-

bit as if

everything 

is in a pro-

per place –

has an app-

ropriate loc-

ale, one thing

leading, con-

sequently, to

the other. Like

narrative anyone

can follow, and 

occasionally nod in
vigorous agreement,

as if to relay “This

makes sense, I con-

cur!” Like chron-

ology, like an

engaging bed-

time story told

with the primary

purpose of putting

one to sleep. Sound-

ly, with intermittent

dreams (anti-logic,

experimental poet-

ics, nonsequiturs, 

etc.).  I arose at

seven am. I lunched

at eleven.  I interview 

at two. I sleep around

one in the morning. I

am uncloudy and I

rate the logic of

my world.  Breathe

in.  Breathe out.

This day is very

alive.  In fact,

it rocks! Today

rocks!  And I rule!

Oh, happy day

of the living.


Sunday, November 18, 2018

mmdcccii

Art Not Play?

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again

       whom we love.
                                                       —Frank O’Hara
 
Today,
the city
clearer,
I walk it.
 
Up and
down its
many hills.
 
The Far
East is
as far
away as
El Segundo.
 
Which is
either
very far
away or
very close.
 
It depends
on your
perspective.



Wednesday, October 31, 2018

mmdccci

I’m Not Sure About This One...
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem III*) 

In my world a magician

is a thief and a poet is
a con artist. Right? OK,
you’d be correct in point-
out that I’m adrift, drop-
ping big blankets over
people. Some people.
Such as those who can
be instantly figured out,
of course. Because, sure,
much art (many, actually)
is a con above all else. If
nothing but. A pro, how-
ever, gets with the pro-
gram, is on the ball (but
why is it always only 
one ball?). A pro is a go-
getter, a meat-eater and,
most importantly, a bread-
winner (hint: BECAUSE HE
HAS A JOB! Or two.). 
Make no bones about it,
I’ve tried both sides. 
Pro. And con. I guess
you might say that
makes me versatile.

 
 
*(the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,” 
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that 
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under 
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying 
  attention)





Monday, October 29, 2018

mmdccc

A Page of Thoughts

These (which, my handwriting
was never the best, but is a word
hear that looks more like “the hex” — 
which I love — but these
days I’ve become the cliché
who can all-too-often barely
read his own handwriting; so 
transcribing from paper to
perhaps another draft on paper
[drafts??] before time at the com-
puter to input, type, the part that
seems the most endless of all,
probably because of the limited
timeframes which I’m allowed to
sit at a computer.  And so. I truly
never edited for any considerable 
length of time, but my situation 
over the past few years seems 
to have greatly increased my 
editing time and process 
[process?], while at the 
same time, thanks especially, 
I am certain, to my transience, 
connected also to my lack of
ownership, of a laptop or a 
desktop [one without time
limits which have me hop-
ping from library to library, 
etc.] or even a decent cell-
phone….   AND [alas!]
there is the problem of 
nowhere mine to go, no-
where mine to sit.)  Blame, 
blame, blame.   I do a lot of 
blaming.  I know.  A lot.  People 
tell me all the time. Perfect 
strangers.  Today it is just to say
that maybe we are too complex.
For blame.  Or remembering your
name. I know.  It's me.  I do, i swear,
spend much private time “owning up” — 
but I take a stand in making certain to 
publicly act on attempts to know when
NOT to blame myself, and when to
firmly stick to understanding when 
(don't laugh!) I am the victim.  Know 
when to kowtow.  Know when to bow out. 
Or when to just bone up.  Ow!  Just shut up 
about it all.  You are hurting my head
on a regular but limited
basis. Many people, perhaps 
like you, seem very uncom-
fortable with that.  But that’s
a horror story and not a thought. 
"Let’s have coffee and talk about 
this sometime.”  With all of the
seriousness in the world, that
request.  Because this one is short…  
[Or so I thought when I first drafted it.…
and yet:])….
The hex, or these things, while
often wonderful, fun, innocuous, 
interesting, odd, not always too 
overly dramatic or logical, graph-
ic, sinister without the cynicism,
or, no, I mean the other way
around. I think. Of me.  Occasion-
ally (I mean who else?) I am a good 
person. I mean I am good, right?  
So genuine, so full of crap, without
suffering from the worry
of being too Gemini (a gleefully
sincere lie!). I work hard. Also to
strive for good, to comprehend 
what that might mean and why it
might or might not be meaningful.
Air quotes make us similar. Many
things make us forget, grow dist- 
ant, relax into that conundrum
like an oxymoron, fall apart. I
fall to pieces. Trying to fix things
shows our simplicity, our com-
plexity, the spectacular spectrum
of our complexions, the horrible sense
of if all. The horrible sensations. The luxury 
of baggage. I’m falling into my fading “I’m 
right and you aren't” mentality (empathy being 
the line that separates adulthood and child-
hood — sadly, most seem never to 
find their hidden grown-up.  And it has 
to be driven attempts, done on regular bases, 
at “being as” else.  Someone who, preferably,
holds values quite independent from those 
of your own (Do you have one? Allow me to
check.), if not at complete odds with it.  Shut 
up! At least on the surface.  We can go now. 
Going is growing. You go first. What’s your
cuppa?  I am culpable too, sometimes.
Just like you are.  Just like Robert Culp is.






Sunday, October 28, 2018

mmdccxcix

Sakrificial Gravy

Milk like
Nick’s (ramp-
ant) rice farm
shudder with the
farts of the wild
rams (and their res-
pective ramettes) and
it’s so totally amped, hasn’t
seen rain in the timespan it
took me to attend three new 
Thai eatery’s grand openings 
(each, consequently, to rave reviews)
here at the opposite end of the Pac-
ific….   So, it’s the videocam
again, it’ll always do in an in-
stant (neither of us is yawning); 
an instant of love over the
mildew of lost connections, 
I think aloud with the (by now) 
tired and sleepy crickets.  A 
quick list of the cons of an 
unwitting conversationalist 
(unwilling, though?) means 
much more than a possible 
risk that never got a chance
to even return home a pro (a
live one, anyway). Thus, this
prospectus (in perpetuity): he
begs with his legs until he
probably believes he can prove
non-proximal conversion —
but from this end of deprav-
ity he (as usual) spews his top
(which clearly should be crim-
son red!). Stop.  No.  There is
nary a tract of (his) (thought?)
process (flitting as swiftly and 
as flirtatiously as his eyelashes
and as endearingly as his aping
of my own curse phrases — 
which I conduct in honor of my 
dad, I always say after a spate —
only he twists the phrases so in-
side out until all sorts of hil-
arity simmers deep in my gut and 
erupts as an explosion of
gratitude and forgiveness 
Then his quick change of
subject, which is intentional,
not in the least nonsequitur, 
and so dizzying that I forget 
whether we’re dining at
The Ritz this evening (or in his 
case, tomorrow morning) or at
The International House of
Baloney. But I can clearly 
ascertain that the guy sitting
at the table next to ours (or,
rather, mine?) has a lifeless 
hand cupping his crotch while
he concentrates deeply into
his phone. This scene is so nor-
mal as to generate satisfac-
tion. I might as well be speak-
ing directly into my table-
neighbor’s crotch. It is, I de-
cide, a good thing I can write
in the stead of whatever I’m
paying for at whenever mo-
ment I decide is payday. I 
remember an entire
city filled with internet. But
I seem memory-free when it
comes to the serial dramas and
serial killers that crumbled and
corrupted it. The city is who I
love. Do you? Dehydration may
yet turn out to be true love after all.
I found you in this city, lover 
of mine, conducting a wok. It
is a story of two poles on a 
big ball of seasons; delicious
with stir-fry (the air is perm-
eated ginseng).  The grieving
process is enormous, hyper-
bolic, ignorant (most hope-
fully) and always induces hy-
perventilation. We shall meet
next week when the icecaps 
finish melting and will of course
have no choice but to collapse
into a bear hug that slowly
works its grip all the way down
to our twenty throbbing, drowning, 
electric-ecstatic toes.  You pick 
your reality and I will pick mine.



Friday, October 26, 2018

mmdccxcviii

Coiffured


It’s not my tome to pen
(and what a pen it would be!),
but the necessity for this ask task
might as well look like defeat (May
I borrow your set of clippers, please?  
My last two pair have been, sadly,
stolen.  And as for what remains of
this last set, well, I just accidentally
chopped the electrical wire in
two.) but it is.

                              So you lost all
sensation in your left abdomen?
Good news:  The Depression!

                                            People
go around saying beards are passé
now.  But I’m in luck!  Because this
is San Francisco.  And in San Francisco, be
you an actual panhandler (that word
harks a bit too far back in this neck
of the woods, but I guess could mean
one who doesn’t have a job, one who
doesn’t have a place to live and/or one
who  doesn’t have a penny) or you’ a
tech zillionaire the good news is this:
beards are still very much in fashion.

Don’t think for a moment, however, that just
because I am double-up on my luck (because of my
profession) and I live the lifestyle that has been
handed to me that I cannot relate to the guy
here who is in the fishing industry. 

And panhandlers?

(Being still, as they say, in on the joke, I have yet to
hold my cupped hands out sad-facedly toward anything
but the internet.)

Also, just because I’m queer (and obviously
have no idea where I am going with this) does not
mean I give a dime to any Tom, Dick or Harry on
the street.  I say people need to own it in order to
earn it.  Not that I even pay attention to the street.
Or the people on them.

                                    At least Daddy always says
that I like to think of a runway as a garage with a
slice of carpet down the middle (somewhere be-
tween the Jaguar and the Leisure Van.  Or maybe
we could place the carpet here, next to the Tesla. 
Now wouldn’t that be very today?).... 


By the way, the Jaguar is our little family joke.
However, I’m unsure who in the family still
approves of it being a joke anymore.  That is, ever
since Skeeter passed during the safari back &rsuo;88.
(Skeeter drove the jaguar once.  With Billy Joel in
the passenger seat.  Or so the story goes, anyway.)


Honestly, I think this show is going to be such a
crumble.  It’s like Eve always says to me:
You do such gritty work, how do you do it?! 


I’ll tell you how to do it —
and this is just between you and me —
I make it real, honey.  I make it real.



Wednesday, October 24, 2018

mmdccxcvii

Chicken Ships

Today, I’m of a mind
to beam up every
therapy session in
which I’ve partici-
pated and start over.
Also on my mind
(or on its to do list):
settle up on the dif-
ferences between bro
bruh, bra and blood.
Sure, what it all comes
down to (and this is me 
letting you know that I’m
in on the joke) is solv-
ing such puzzles as
How to act crazy and
not be crazy, How to
reconcile subsequent
crazies with back when
crazy was good (Crazy
good!), How often to 
pose as crazy, When
to attempt to pass as
officially crazy (whe-
ther crazy or not) and
How to simply be crazy.
If I make fun of the line
between crazy and not
crazy does that make me
sane?  Just in case it’s 

worth a try, this has 
been my attempt.

Thursday, October 04, 2018

mmdccxcvi

that moment

when you
realize that
you’re be-
ing hood-
winked,
and that
you can’t
do a damned
thing about it.


Monday, October 01, 2018

mmdccxcv

Hell Yeah!

(Stephen Colbert
sticker poem II)

Here’s what I say:
“Hells yeah!!”  That’s
at least what I say on
nights such as the one
through which I am
presently scooting.
It's a disaster (this
particular night).
Like Oh, what a night
(Cause I ain’t got no
money...
)! But I can dance,
that I can do.  Watch
me exit the stage all
by myself, head to the
coat check, suck the
coat check guy’s
lower lip (just a little 
bit; it’s a thing), walk
out into the night fog.
Done.  Alone.  Alone
and done.  Not that com-
pletion and/or singularity
in and of themselves is bad,
nor in need of iteration (cf,
further previous hyperbolic
journal entries), except...
I’m a weirdo anyway, we
can all agree on that (right?).
I’m not actually done, how-
ever.  I mean, I sit here writ-
ing this to you sitting next to
a brand new friend (also a 
weirdo, but I think that’s 
probably okay).  Oh, if life
were circuitous and evolv-
ing in any significant
sort of way. .  .  .

Sunday, September 30, 2018

mmdccxciv

Brave Words

(the first of a set of poems
with titles from a page of
“STICKERS” with “man of
the house affirmation
phrases” [my words]
in Stephen  Colbert’s 
I Am America
And So Can You


I must tell you this
before the parquet
full of butter explodes:
Politics sucks!  It was
the era when politics
sucked more than usu-
al.  Summer in the South
when wasps and hornets
build their nests out your
bedroom window and you
are mesmerized. And
that’s when the realization
occurs: we each bring some-
thing of (relative) relevance
to the table, should we de-
cide to arrive at it.  And no
matter the number in attend-
ance at the table, each one-
on-one engagement that trans-
pires at the table is every bit
as unique as what we bring
to those tables.

[interlude: whilst several
poems are lost and some
of them are found again
and edits are actually
made, and, and...]

Yes.  I know.  I talk entirely
too much.  I always have.
Too many words. Words and 
words and words and words. 
Thank you for not telling me 
to shut up (this time).  A 
million times thank you. 
Brave words, all.