Thursday, July 26, 2018

mmdcclxxxvi

Ground Round

I, myself, have
yet to serve in

any military
capacity. I
have, how-
ever, always
been fond of

ammunition.


Wednesday, July 25, 2018

mmdcclxxxv

Jim & I

My New Year's Resolution,
granted, a couple of weeks
early, is to stop being bitter.
About anything.  Yes, how 
improbable, how impossible
this sounds, you think.  You
know me perhaps (improb-
able), and there is a lot to be
bitter about; a whole lot of
junk floating around about 
which to be bitter, be you
me, or be you, well, you. Of
that, am I right or am I wrong?
Normally, I am able to look at
most anything happy and heart-
ily strive. After all, there are infin-
ite angles from which to look.  
Is it necessary to cultivate the
bad stuff, then allow it to inte-
grate and to potentially over-
take? Even momentarily? I know
I do.  So that makes it all my fault.
Which is...okay? Am I right or am I
right?  But if I have nobody to blame
but myself, who then do I finally have?
I realize now, as I walk endlessly through
this city of mirrors that I am doomed.  But
when you live in a city full of mirrors, you  
might pass, as I am right at this very instant,
by a somewhat familiar face that has a smile
directed right at you, a face that, as its smile
shrinks or sort of sinks into itself, belongs to 
a figure that is the template, the embodiment,
it seems to me, of sheer joy. There isn't a
speck or a flicker of sarcasm.  I know this
because I check very thoroughly when I en-
counter familiarity. Also,  I have a very on-
going relationship with loss.  Loss I know.
So this guy appears. And what do I do?
I say "Hey there, Mister.  I have a fairly
good feeling that we've met before." And
I say this in earnest, as I extend my idiot-
ic arm nearly smack into the mirror's edge.


Saturday, July 21, 2018

mmdcclxxxiv

The Ground of No Ground

Four children bumped
in the air. They call this
a high five.  Children
are elusive.  There are
lines of impermanence,
lines of closure, lines
drawn in the sand and
lines of cocaine, where
sales have hit Ground
Zero. Brands are beautiful:
brass brands, swing brands,
junkyard brands and even
little yellow polka brands.

Friday, July 20, 2018

mmdcclxxxiii

Bloody Birth

License to
drive. A con-
gratulatory
pedestrian
files his
shame
into the
pocket be-
neath the
brand name
of his neck-
tie bod-
ice piss-
pot.
There
are no
typewriters.
There is no
"ammunition" --
no inevitable
Big Bang.  But
if I told you what
they really make
the monkeys do. . . . .

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

mmdcclxxxii

PANDA PUNDIT

Sounds skill
Lariat's donut.

Hews sinking
(about sinew)!

Smoothie witch-
es Lucy biased of-

ten his awled brook.
Itches effen cauled

braid. Ah, plant it
like as if a reality

Cuticle, Darlene
(Knot!). This bee

smoothie knock
tern turned into

dust. Knock's
worst toward

Innie Moor.
DRove into dun

Dinah's door
(Cant tink a

Rotten pink-
ing cent, that

Dinah!). Ding
buckle it! Dirk

bugle lit! Pork
Horror Porklins

calomines: Ding
dang bung kit!

Den, kaput.


Monday, July 16, 2018

mmdcclxxxi

Hopeless Poet / Homeless Romantic

If it’s from the heart
it must not be homeless.

Homes have no heart
except when they are

in production. Literature
doesn’t provide the bright-

est. The eyes that glow with
the most hope are probably

not the eyes of poets. Nobody
smells / sports / spoils roses

like homeless poets is a very
ethnocentric statement (in any


form). But nobody is lousy (not
one person is lousy) and anyone

who can speak is allowed to
speak, etc. We are everywhere.

My home is you. But there are
no lines (i.e., no boundaries).

Only surface. One surface
upon which there is no run-


way onto which any flying
object can cleanly land;

no runway to properly
showcase any of our guilt.

Monday, July 02, 2018

mmdcclxxx

Hearts & Backpacks

This lacks poetry,
but I’m sitting on
the same bed (or
same spot) in the
same emergency
room where Otto
(how long has it
been since I wrote
that name?) had
his heart failure
diagnosed.  You’d
think if your heart
failed it would be
easy to diagnose,
but as it turn out....
Anyway, my heart
is no longer failing
as it’s already gone.
Sorry, couldn’t re-
sist.  And maybe
that’s just wistful
thinking, anyway.
There have been
a lot of wists to
dwell upon or
inside of lately.
Like earlier today
(wist) when yet an-
other half of all of
the belongings I
possess from my
fifty-one years
were stolen
right from my
clinging arms
while I was a-
sleep in a park.
This kind of thing
seems to happen
so often that I’ve
begun to think of it
as clichè (which I
keep thinking is
“so clichè!”)....
Anyway, so I
(presented to
you as nothing
but myself, who
is “so cliché”)
was asleep in
the park this
morning... ... ...




Monday, June 25, 2018

mmdcclxxix

To Ache Well

I rarely do.
Have a comp-
lete thought
(you know,
without start-
ing another one,
I mean).  Take
the rock I’ve
been sleeping
on for a week
now, for ex-
ample.  Nice
view and all.
But it’s a rock!
And a very cold
one at that. And
however heavy
the wind blows
(also, quite
cold!), it never
really carries
me, my thoughts
or that confound-
ed rock (from
which what an
extraordinary
view!) away.
“Aw, shaddap,
Jim!”  “Okay,
okay,” says I,
“good night,
Slim.” “Good
night to you,
too, Mis-
ter Jim.”
To which he
just has to
add, with
his arms
and his
four fing-
ers in the
air, look-
ing just
like the
metal-
head he
never was,
“You rock!”
Then morn-
ing crows.
And it’s
funny how
the aches
are never
terribly
funny until
years later.
“Years later,
Jim?” To which 
we don our 
Devo ziggurat 
hats and fan out 
into the wilderness.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

mmdcclxxviii

Making Up for Lost Time
    (the anti-maudlin)

“Who am I?” spoke 
the Doolittle to the
Transamerica Pyramid.

“A dollar for a dollop 
of muh hot sauce,”
spoke the master to 

the orphaned squatter.
“Doomsday accrues,”
spoke Maestro Brosnan w/

a clean-shaven Irish brogue 
o'course. The buildings at 
the city's center all hum in

a vibrant sort of way.  The
foghorn is almost percussive.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!” spoke 

the crow in advance of
the careening sun as the
kooky squirrel that hangs

near the top of the foreign
tree awoke (the kooky squir-
rel being, as usual, between

me and the bullish blue of
the big old bay). “How so 
very ray!” spoke the squirrel,

which rhymed quite nicely
with the hum and the drum
of the hottish doom of a fog-

lit day; with the hum and the
drum and the salty-hot Irish doom
hovering over the stench of this over-

ripe foglit day.  P.S. The squatter
kept squatting, the bull remained
quite the bully (even into elderly

bullishness) and I, myself, the very
narrator whose report you now seek,
went on my merry maudlin Monday way.



Thursday, June 14, 2018

mmdcclxxvii

Waa waa road divider
                   —Ted Greenwald

I gave myself sun-
burn!  And look who’s
at the doorway, look-
ing just as sinister as
he never looked, the
halo almost a floating
aura around this month’s
bangs.  Why, it's YOU, 
that's who!  If, for ex-
amle, we were to ex-
change a glance or two
(we do, we did), I’d
think “and just to think,
it all started with I don’t
know you, you don’t know
me. Right?"  Right.  But
somebody must have really
wanted to know something.  
(Right?)   (And what a shame, 
ignorance?)  (Right?).  “Hey, 
sonny, can you make the 
burn go a-way?”  Or can 
you at least make it go 
thattaway.  And to think, 
the burn was the burn
of the party cake, the
slight heartburn of a
heart having a panic
attack.  And the angel
reminded the heart
that there was no panic
at all, was there?  No
panic at all.  Then the
burp.  Then the twinned
laughter.  "Can you make
the burn go away,  kiddo!"
started without the de-
ranged scream, was
more of a simple whis-
per: "Burn it up daddy, 
just burn it all up.  Ama- 
zingly, since burn nev-
er really goes up.  In
that sense.  It goes
down.  “Look it’s
all burnt down,”
said Sally for the
fifteenth time
walking down
Conifer Lane
for the fif-
teenth time
in a row, thirty
months after it
all burnt down.
The 5-alarm fire
that didn’t even
fry the doorway.
If you look, or at
least when Sally
looks, she can
almost see the
cherub, his red
flowing cape,
and long ash-
whipped nose.



Wednesday, June 13, 2018

mmdcclxxvi

2-Ache

Speaking
of Sir
Reality
again, 
sir? How
very déjà
vu of you!
Quick, close
yr eyes and
make it just
another bad
dream (dream).

Wednesday, June 06, 2018

mmdcclxxv

A thrilling smack
              —Ted Greenwald

who’s funnier when you’re
fifty (than when you’re in
your late thirties).   I, be-
fore e, except after sex.
Which somehow sounded
just as good at fifteen.
This is everything, almost
the very end of everything,
the everything that gets
stolen right from between
my legs.  Just got, that is.
What’s the difference be-
tween two black and gray
camouflage backpacks?
Funny just will not do for
this wise-ass crackpot,
will it?  Speaking of off-
color humor ... just will
not do for this wisecrack.
More comedy ensues, it
never fails.  For example,
take all of the instructions
at the Tenderloin Police
Department (a charmer of
a community haven, please
allow me to ensure you).
When asked about the
report I’d be filing, I
begin with fifteen pages
of handwritten words (“it’s
part of a much-larger pro-
ject,” I try to get out of the
dry craw near my goozle, and
somehow manage before the
now imaginary “and much,
much more...” comes out
like the square wheel of
my father’s long lost verb-
alized breath.  Ah, libido,
how surreal! I think, smooth
as a song as sung by Mel Tillis.
“...all of my important files,
you know, with labels like
“bills,” “housing,” “job-
search,” and “urgent.”
“It was really just a back-
pack filled with earnest
modesty and endless ‘im-
portance,” croons Tillis,
as if honey from my stut-
ters, “just a backpack
that fell alseep in the
wrong man’s backyard.”

Tuesday, June 05, 2018

mmdcclxxiv

Condescension in the Fiction Section

No one would believe my story.  And yet it would bore
pretty much anyone to tears.  My story, it ain’t no good.  
A story can come in many sizes and a good one will work on 
multiple levels, they say.  The same could be said of the icons of
today's blockbuster cinema: Superman, Spiderman, Naruto, Wolverine,
Magneto, the Avatar, Captain Underpants (he IS a cinematic superhero,

right?  I just ran into a 5 year old sporting an under-sized t-shirt with this
unlucky official moniker), Jack Black, Captain Jack Sparrow, Cap’n Crunch, 
Peter Pan, etc.  “I was born in the Summer of Love,” I say, just to throw 
people off.  I mean, look at me, do I look like the son of hippies (I certainly am
not)??  And then I wear a grimace for the rest of the day. What happened to
all of the love, I mumble intermittently from, I dunno, 4:00 to 11:00 pm 

(the latter couple of hours I mumble somewhat drowsily until later:
I wasburn in a Smermer of Loovthe!”  I shout somewhere on Haight
Street, knowing that most  people confuse this summer (not my mumbles,
necessarily) with 1969, the summer the twins were born (my little brothers), 
and the summer those men landed on the moon (or else the year that Stanley
Kubrick was an unusually prolific, not to mention quite stealthy director).  

Reality?  Most people don’t get 1969 confused with 1967.  On any level.  Um.  
Perhaps on some level, almost everyone (of a certain age) gets 1969 confused 
with 1967.  But what of 1968, 1971, 1975, or even 1979....1973?   Presently, 
I’m either depressingly or at least toyingly toodling with the distance between
the present and that grand demarcation: the Summer of Love.  Now let’s all
poke some fun at glaring half-centuries which ogle back at me like oversized

bobble-heads (aren't they all?).  And above those blurred bobs – in a precisely
delineated neon yellow – flashes the appropriate word, one we’d take on
decades later: “D’uh.”  So did folks living in the Summer of Love realize that
they were participants in the Summer of Love?  Or did that realization arrive
years later as a posthumously (so-to-speak) appellative?  And how subsequent,
if so?  This I am pretty certain is a fact that I should know, but, my memory.  

And, on a related note, as luck would have it, I’ve already lost all interest.  
Except in how it might pertain to me, as usual.  You know, that
particularly easy-going plump babe was born the second Thursday
of June; during  what (in such towns, such as the one in which I was 
born), lovingly (or laughingly) was called the morning rush hour (actually
two fantastical l-words of my own bias, because most citizens hereof had 

never even been anywhere else in the world (another fantasy/bias, if you'll
allow), when it comes to the rush of an hour, to even realize there can be 
a difference.  I was such an easy birth, too, just ask my mother, (who
definitely knows from worse).  That'd be me, born as I was in none other
than THE summer of love, a summer which will never again be half a

century in distance from anywhere else in the world (be that anywhere 
Vesta, Arkansas; Kyoto, Japan; Skopje, Macedonia; or either of the multi-
tudinous but  each unique canals of Venice, Amsterdam or St. Petersburg. 

Monday, June 04, 2018

mmdcclxxiii

Fake Excuse

When it's

impossible
to write
because
you can't
afford a
pen (and
you're too
chicken-
shit to
steal one).


Wednesday, May 02, 2018

mmdcclxxii

Part Poem / Part Agnostic

I guess I’m too old to 

die young; I mean, in

any sort of hyperbolic
way. (And I’m easy

to admit that I’d love
to be remembered

quite hyperbolically.)

Thursday, April 26, 2018

mmdcclxxi

Maudlin

That part you have
right.  That part of
me wading in all of
the bullshit, you de-
scribe it differently,
and it’s your bod-
given right, abso-
lutely, because
your attention is
sick, and not in a
good way, sick as
the victims you
point at all day
long, thinking
nothing, per-
taining to the
victims, but
even moreso
how you feel
about this sys-
tem we spent
time building,
applauding,
lauding, up-
setting, and
rearranging,
along with
our values,
how wonder-
fully precious
to have one or
two of them,
but eviscerated?
I don’t recom-
mend it, nope.
I believe that’s
what’s so shock-
ing about these
stocking-stuffers
so heavily weight-
ed with self-esteem
isssues, depressions,
the inactive ideas of
each yesterday’s gung-
ho, being solidly put in-
to a place where nobody
can remember (the idea,
yesterday, the solidity,
the action of inaction),
the pitch-perfect abuse
(sitting in front of Life-
time television yell-
why stay with such
a son-of-a-bitch!?I,
the killing of the hap-
py (where did those 
drugs go, right?)
as a sneaky mur-
derer of worse
crept in to our
universe of val-
use and such,
wow, what a
valuable uni-
verse (because,
yes, of course,
it’s since been
completely re-
veresed!), ig-
noring con-
sequences, as
if what are those?

Let’s pause for
just a moment
to prepare for
what otherwise
would be a lethal
isolation.  Which
means ignore my
pleas, ignore my
please, snub ev-
ery last one of
my pleases,
take a step
closer, just
one step, and
recall how much
further it was than
the step before
from the bleak fix
that is me, how dar-
ling of me to nostalgic-
ally imagine it so, ano-
ther step closer/further
and we might even re-
discover that release
sensation, the valve
and value of which
we lost, broke, or
just forgot to keep
their forwarding
addresses...

(to be continued,
always at some
futuristic hour,
so long as we are
still skipping and
beating, breathing
and slipping.  So by
all means stay tuned)

Monday, April 23, 2018

mmdcclxx

2. out of sorts (5 letters)

It's like

a cross-
word
puz-
zle.

It's

not
going
to work
without
the words.