Wednesday, October 29, 2014


It takes you so long to apologize
                                —Tim Dlugos

I am particularly boring
these last few years.  We
order some green stuff,
stay only a few minutes
because he’s got a dot-
com interview on Mon-
day that sounds promis-
ing.  And

Dude had a date last night. 
Then Otto and I watched
a million episodes of
whilst eating
our din-din.  Many
episodes, four or five, I
think.  Then to bed where
I dreamed about zombies.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014


                                   i hold your hand
       because i thought you loved me;
       those games are better left
       for the sane.
                                —John Thomson

Do you know how I can tell
that you are very concerned?
That’s the spirit.  Enmeshed
within (or upon) your web,

I try every sticky angle.
The spirits do assess.
I am told that a goblin
once laughed a melan-

choly laugh upon (or
over) my travails.  With
tail tucked inward I heave
and weep childishly in hopes,

in heaven’s hopes, to un-
secure the spider’s hold.

Monday, October 27, 2014


Failure is the offshoot of argument—but then failure occurs too from a
                 lack of it
                                                                                 —Lyn Hejinian

Being a media consultant
is hard work.  I wake up
ready to engage.  The
media are already on
my lap.  I cradle and
they coo and then
I’m off to consulting.

For lunch, I eat a
can of beans and a
fresh salad (usually
Caesar’s).  And then
it’s back to consulting.

Dinner comes too late,
and all too oft without
a date.  I go to bed
sad and sleepless.

Sunday, October 26, 2014


The Two Thieves

It seems that we’ve
stolen and stolen
from each other in such
deep and beautiful ways.

For example, I always
awaken to the most
wonderful sky filled
with white fluffy pillows.

For example, I awaken
to darkness, a resplendent
darkness because you’re
using me as your fluffy pillow.

Always on the run, often
kleptomaniacal, we glisten
over one magazine or the
other, taking snapshots in our heads.

These get developed, blown-
up, inevitably, by strange
and divergent processes that
neither quite gleans from the other.

Saturday, October 25, 2014


              Every time you try to write 
          the truth it changes.
      —Stephanie Young

     and then
     it was

     a beaut-
     iful outspok-
     en moon shone
     clear through it.

             More happens.
                —Stephanie Young

Friday, October 24, 2014


Unbuttoned Triceratops..

or that’s what it says right
here on the last page of
writing in this undated
notebook.  Clearly it’s
my writing.  And it can’t
have been forever ago.

And furthermore, 
that would, you’d
think, be quite the
memorable title for
a poem.  What follows—
the supposed body of
the piece called “Un-
buttoned Triceratops”
—is pretty good, too.

     Scratching two items off the list, I
     lift my arms.

Well, if I did eventually
type it up to include in
here, I could fairly eas-
ily find it behind this
page somewhere, un-
der whatever roman
numeral.  But I cert-
ainly don’t remember
it.  Which is too bad,
too.  Because this
spoils everything.

Thursday, October 23, 2014


No words here.  Like I am at least
bubbling over with excitement.
That is, as I battle it out with
someone who was probably
born during the bicentennial
and whose screen name has
allusions to an early Hall &
Oates song (they, too, are
from the U.S.A.).

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


Open your mouth say what you think you might mean
                                                               —Alli Warren

I wish.  I mean I do
but the voice trans-
criber always fucks
things up.  What is
that smell that just
became our apart-
ment?  “Could you
drop by professionally?”
I ask.  To which I get no
response.  Round over.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014


How useful was this page?
                  —Patrick F. Durgin

Who decides
which benefits
are positive?

Monday, October 20, 2014


slower production

he drew
his head
upon the


Sunday, October 19, 2014


found (3)

play head:        beginning
             in a flash

             one per

tween:                shape

Saturday, October 18, 2014


whitney houston athens burning

          is your boyfriend as wasted as mine?
                                               —Alli Warren

just so that some schmuck who’s
googled whitney houston turns up,
eyes double-blinking, here.  imagining
the elegant rhyme of schmuck with
the wonderful title a duck is a duck.
Or whichever lagoon is richest.  Or 
wherever the lugume is itchiest.
Oops, they just served a pork
tenderloin on CNN.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014


          Illusions of Motion

          pull bones

or ... Allusions to Emotion?

Tuesday, October 14, 2014


found (2)

Stop        People         Thought


Monday, October 13, 2014


Without trying
to make funny
out of it, neither

drowning out my
sorrows or dry-
ing off my face/

drowning in
my face

Was he


I imagine it so,

Sunday, October 12, 2014


the alley’s a self-conscious mews, and suddenly the Muse is off
to Yaddo.
                                                                      —Tim Dlugos

“It’s more real then yours,” he said,
and I wrote it down because I couldn’t
even listen, much less understand.  I,

plugging up my eyes—and not just to
drum up any sentiment—was think-
ing, “I—will—never—go—dancing—

again!”  Later, I changed the filters
and installed a new showerhead.
What was he saying?  What could

he have possibly meant?  What
was he doing?  I remember him
saying that, and that alone.  And

I remember writing it down.
...  And look, here’s proof.

                                       [see graphic]

Wednesday, October 08, 2014


found (1)

     -exchange of exhibition

     -how i got there

     -what i really feel like doing

                                       [see graphic]

Tuesday, October 07, 2014


Did you summarize?

Did you summarize?
Did you make it clear
what is the problem?

Monday, October 06, 2014


Any idea is at its best when it liberates.
                                    —Maya Angelou

It was
an idea.

It was

Saturday, October 04, 2014


The Voo-Doo That Who Do?

It is my _____ as well as yours
is something.  Why’d you not
grasp that, much less grasp
at it?  As slowly and slowly
I read:  “Yours.  Yours.  Yours.”

Friday, October 03, 2014


Things I Would Say But Can’t

                       Wanted to know about making art and telling the truth.
                                                                               —Rachel Blau DuPlessis

I should have moved forward a little bit,
like five years,

read page fifteen,
came back home. 

Come back home
and buy a bunch of purple tulips,

very tight ones
that last longer.

Time travel makes
tulips last longer,

makes them tighter, after all.  But
what got squeezed

into?  That almost unforgotten
page from over

fifteen years
ago.  How does

almost unforgetting
happen?  The French

have a saying about it,
if not an actual theory.

I left the tulips in the
Museum of Visual 

As I lie here, 

dying, do I 
still wonder?  

Now what kind 
of mantra is that?

Thursday, October 02, 2014



i had meant to write begin,
like fresh start, but wrote
being, that mystery of be
ing so inappropriate that 
we’re al(l )most inappro
priate – ma(s)king sense of 
everything that marls sense.  
marking things up, us being
marking beings, us being, us
being marked, each milking
the mark-down, making like
marrying up just to make up,
each of us, all along, each a
glass of senseless melon.  up 
at dawn just to make cents,
man.  more like making sense
manqué. thinking in the end
that man just can't, man. can
it!  and that’s mondo fucked up, 
isn’t it?  and to think, i participated.

Meant to erase half the words or more
but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
               —Rachel Blau DuPlessis

that others often mis-type the one word for
the other doesn’t make me feel like part of
one big happy family.  i was in a family once.
and to think.  i participated.

it looks like we
           both really screwed up
                                     this time,
                                               doesn’t it?

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


The Embarrassment

he tried to take it
all in stride, the
he had even lived 
like a country that
could afford too lit-
tle too late.  but the
cinematic sirens. the 
sirens they plunged his 
eyeballs.  into his eye-
balls they plunged. and 
out poured a very large
sea, which all called the
ocean.  and all the while,
eons, the embarrassment
kept trying to get up, but
inside, the embarrassment
was filled with embarrass-
ment, and even more such
pathetic and horrible tor-
ments.  and outside, the
sea, which some call the
ocean.  the ocean of no
feeling.  the ocean of
pleas, or, for some,
the ocean of please.
but to each eye
that sees, to
each eye that
sees, the ocean,
the ocean, the ocean.

Monday, September 29, 2014


Purple Tulips

I know

But then
was I.

Sunday, September 28, 2014


is this the only thing?

          “’s the year where I keep crying or almost crying,
          I feel like a bad actor laughing at my own joke...”
                                                                           —Stephanie Young

there are
so very

as that


Saturday, September 27, 2014


is this the only thing that i do?

i don’t mind
growing up

but what if i
change my

mind?  will
it be like this

the sun


all of the

radar ranges
and onto

the bulimic

was this
too much

to absorb,

the dying

Friday, September 26, 2014


homage to the little boy in the
emergency room waiting area




but i write


just what i do

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


a cento of love
full of augmentation
isn’t what she said or wrote
          it was argumentation

but i am allowed to change
the argument to slap it in its
face before he walks out of the
cento of love forever or never

to be seen again
what’s so important about
the center of love are not the
fireworks nor the varying sounds

of the fireworks on the third or
the fourth of whatever month
of whatever country hospital
your dad isn’t breathing well in

inside of which whatever hospital
isn’t what she said either it’s just
MY center of love she argued as she
wrote the word over and over again

          with much gratitude to stephanie young

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


being a fool
by fools i am
silenced by

it must be
wise i think

but it’s not me
it’s the mariachi
band through
the broken
i woke
up under

i didn’t
wake up
the mari
achi band

must be
the only
act of
that i can

were it
a wise
i would

i would

Monday, September 22, 2014


Did you want me to ingest this?

“Stop talking about porn,”
I entreat, “& start talking
about yr cigarette.  !”  Or
that’s what I said I said,

and I didn’t just get this
from the voice.  “It’s just
my viscous eye,” he texts,
right back at me, always

pretty good like that.
Along with “Just look up
the word zodiac.”  You
know, as if that would

figure everything out.
And that’s me, here,
like usual, just trying
to do that one little

thing, just trying to
figure everything
out, right?  Like why
she’s flying through

the air across Market
Street.  “It’s not the
voice, you idiot!” says
the voice.  “It’s one of

those unfair treats that
come to get served on 
happiest occasions.”
A treat. Come along.

Just for me.  And
just for you.  We
both breathe to-
gether at that one.

Sunday, September 21, 2014


the harder i think about it,
privacy is, well, you tell me,
i’d love to hear, cuz i only ever
think of the one reason.  sure,
we’ve each and all got some-
thing of a duplicitous nature. 
i blame culture (inasmuch
as, you know), and go look-
ing for the interesting stuff,
how a person or a people
got to this point.  or why. 
it often starts to be logical.
but pretty?  well, i guess
we all want to be pretty.
i know i do.  so why do i
wake up every morning,

get myself looking some-
thing like myself, and
walk out actually con-
centrating on being
whoever woke up,
same ol’ me, just
showered & cost-
umed up.  i sure
look pretty (or
pretty sad), and,
as far as I can tell 
(or attempt to tell), 
i still look pretty
much like myself.  
i'm gemini, so I 
never dwell too long
on one moment, which
is always different from
the next.  me.  not me.

probably about as fast
as I can get the word me
out of my mouth (not the
best place for me, by the
way), the consistency in the
inconsistence, it’s fun,
as I often persist to insist,
while feeling like else
but loving like me,
which is always pretty—
and surely, more often
than not, pretty much
looks and feels like me—
for which i’m glad, i ask my
self most nights, right to sleep.