Monday, July 06, 2015


You See Plus, I See Minus

I remember
when I used to
feel cosmopolitan

drinking a Cosmopolitan,
in good company, or, say,
a few stories up with a

blurry but blistering view
(squeezing out the tear-
drops).  Such surreality

in his early works, yes?
This phenomenon is
something I tend to

place under a large
umbrella (which,
in French, is not

but parapluie) and
call it all goth.

It’s about a quarter
to seven in the morning
(PST, not CEST [really?]),

and I lie here believing
finish equals awake; the end
comes when the eyes open

with something like intent.
For some godawful reason
I have an appointment with a

fitness instructor at 8am local.
Now I’m just a schlump with

painfully aware that this is not a
nightmare (within which I raise a limp-
wristed au revoir to mémoire:

a brief...recollection, yes,...
in which I am neither cosmo-
politan nor curmudgeon...).

Sunday, July 05, 2015


Tomorrow, my motivation is here to stay.

Last night,
I slept with
a pair of
dollar coins

up near my
head.  This
one indent-

ation, my
face, already
sallow, a
splotch of

Susan B.
like a sunk-
en third eye.

Saturday, July 04, 2015


I remember the dangers of angel hair.
                                  —Joe Brainard            

I just sat there,
all day, watching
another hair go gray.

“Can you push the
ancient,” says the man 
who is perpetually

young.  At the very
moment, I receive
an invitation

to witness “1000
this Saturday.  To

dance among
jockstraps gives
me a twinge

that is neither
overly mature
nor nostalgic.

“Why bother
with angels,” says
the youth of a man

who claims to have
clung to my life
for years,

trapped in a
soulless heart—
or a heartless

soul—that was
once and always
my very own.

Friday, July 03, 2015


Single (or just call me Outdated)

But do call.
I won’t answer,
though.  Sorry,
unlikely.  I am
looking to do
so soon, how-
ever.  Maybe.
So do!  This
really gets me
there.  Sure, it’s
no Poetics, more at
gotta hafta, more
at wrap up tightest
ever and get out the
door.  I’m digging a
tunnel to Herzog this
evening (yes, as in
Werner), an immediate
celebate date (an inter-I
mediate celebrate date.
     (Hello, you’re not
     here, I’m not here,
     what a wonderful
     cinematic ex-

And that’s a wrap!
And no, it’s not such
a bad feeling, like, say
a mule at the office all
morning: a version of
the walk of shame that
hints intermittently at
Such jobs, blow by blow,
occasionally (and always
unexpectedly) throw in a
wrench of nostalgia that
stinks like hell (and free
of charge, of course). 

Oh, break-
dancing mule, what
comes next?  I pause to
steady the burden, breath-
less, in sudden wonder.

Thursday, July 02, 2015


An Attempt at Digging Out By Digging In

Is it a busy month?  Am
I busy this month?  I
can’t tell anymore.  I
just know I’m buried.

Undercover.  Under-
ground.  Under the
gun.  I find so much
truth in the cartoon,

even as I migrate
through sitcom and
back to soap, the
original, except

performed by
strangers up to
four decades later.
Sort of like seeing

your ex-girlfriend,
the one and only,
thirty years later,
last weekend, some

things are more ex-
uberant, complex,
yet infinitely more
at ease, soldier. 

After undergoing
such evolution, or,
perhaps, more simply,
the basic passage of

time: time’s microscope,
or telescope—either one
—it’s heavy (, man).  But
it’s a good thing, time’s

undergo.  Cuz, like,
well, thumbs up to
magnification, to the
sunshine of wisdom

or whatever, to less hys-
steria, to the magnificence
of all of this bursting
out and up and forth!

Wednesday, July 01, 2015


Jonah Hill Is No Christian Bale

A trip to Europe just to take iPhotos
of toilets.  That was the whole trip.