Sunday, August 02, 2015

mmcdxxx

Blondie Constantly

It’s ridiculous to carry a lifelong
disregard (or, most especially,
disdain) when McDondald’s
is constantly evolving.  Today
is no tomorrow.  I think this
is a good thing to keep in mind.

All day long “Whatever Lola Wants”
is the song that is sucking up my
head.  Let’s have the breeze
take over our lives as we
head for a hike on Mount
Tamalpais.  Numbers are
structure, are our very
science, and I am nothing
if not a lover of architects.
They concoct our homes
and supply our shopping
structures: the places
where we go to get
fabric softener.


Saturday, August 01, 2015

mmcdxxix

Stopgap

The simplicity
of the mind
(mine, at
least), has
me stupid
with awe
sometimes.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

mmcdxxviii

...but, um, I, there’s also an idea that if you have a good poet almost everything he says
is interesting in some way, at least, you know, in the sense of life’s work, you know,
everything you write is one huge poem in some weird sense.  I kind of like that idea better.
                                               —Jack Collom (during an “interview” with Reed Bye)



                                 ahistorical
                                 an hysterical
                                 antihistamine

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

mmcdxxvii

48

Think of the
Sleep I’ve
Lost.  Or of

Ignorance
Being bliss.
Settle in

At the day spa
Without a
Shower

Due to
The drought.
30th reunion

Is a no
Go.  Invite
Everyone

To San
Francisco
Instead.

Place a
Roommate
Wanted ad

To balance
The Bevy
Of job interviews.

“Assistants
Required.”  Reel
The dream of

Regular 2-day
Weekends
In.


Monday, July 27, 2015

mmcdxxvi

Wandering Niche-less

                It’s all too-natural to deflate natural
                geometry via anthropocentric suckage.    
                                                         —Jack Collum

It is 11am.  Not
9:30am.  I am
thinking of an
itch between
1 and 10.  This
day (disdain) is
never approri-
ate enough.  I
wanna start
again.  The
shower.  The
grey clouds
in my bowl
of breakfast.
Lying in bed.
The cat’s en-
ergy.  This
day is reel-
ing through
a drought of
street signs;
signs and
stoplights,
an historic-
al treasure.

           (as if nature were a hobby or an acquired taste)   
                                                         —Jack Collum

Friday, July 24, 2015

mmcdxxv

     One morning a three-colored blackbird appears,
     a blackbird from overseas,
     insisting I return.
                                     —Luciano Erba
                                         (translated from Italian
                                          by Ann Snodgrass)


I’d like to be able to say that to someone
someday.  But this is just the slowest!
Hark back to M O V I E S:   taken at

a leisurely pace, (no rush to finish),
which, for the most part, have
always done the trick (mood

upper).  But then I started
fidgeting.  Started falling
asleep in the middle.

Started walking out
in the middle.  Now,
perhaps, it’s the song

that apples mood (I
am slowly taking a
sip).  A Chorus Line

(the film).  Ugh!  I
thought I just ate it
up!  Loved it when I

saw it back in...must’ve
been undergrad.  I tried
watching it again this week.

How could I have ever?!
So, we grow up (or out,
or down), but man, I need

an antidote.  On to the
Cabaret (film version again,
the same one I tried to

watch when in college, but
now...?):  It’s P E R F E C T !    
So, long story short, a

three-colored blackbird
shows up.  And I am caught
without my camera.  (So sad.)

Thursday, July 23, 2015

mmcdxxiv

Dark Morello

After the
cherry
incident

the kitchen
looked like
a crime scene.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

mmcdxxiii

Frozen Chicken of My Heart

I had scrambled eggs mixed with
a microwavable vegan frozen Indian
entree for breakfast less than one
hour ago.  While taking the vegan
tikka box from the freezer, I grabbed
the cold brick that is what remains
of the soup chicken.  Maybe I’m a
hypochondriac, or maybe I’m not
a hypochondriac, but it pleased me
to the edge of giddy when you
dropped by after working all day
just to make me a homemade bowl
of chicken soup.  I’d had the sniffles
all day long and would communicate
only via complaints about coming
down with a cold and all of its
inconveniences.  “The way to a
man’s heart...” knowingly
proclaims everybody’s
mother, including my own,
whose apple and pecan pies
were absolutely bar none. 
But I catch myself standing
with this brick of a chicken
in my hand and a stupid grin
on my face for a while, remem-
bering that, when I was a kid,
whenever I’d have a bit of fever,
a cough, or a scratchy throat,
Mom’s solution, without fail,
was a can of Campbell’s con-
densed chicken noodle soup,
an iced-over cup of 7-Up,
and a few saltines.