Tuesday, May 26, 2015


I’m attempting to avoid
all doctors until after the
White Party.  Maybe
that’s just stupid.  I

paid a guy $200 and
now my drive is hard.
I’m in pain, asleep
at work.  Rainy.  Painy.

A few feet from my
desk lies a tube of
peanut butter filling.
I’m telling you this

story during a storm,
standing in a puddle,
with an attack-heart
and a head-bludgeon.

One eye isn’t opening.
Fortunately, I keep a 
toothpick in my pocket to 
keep the other eye open.

Monday, May 25, 2015



Last night lurked briefly
on a scale of one to ten.

Last evening the work-
out cycle seemed regular,

but now it is nothing but
full of the hurt runs and

a limp that causes the
splits.  Maybe it was

just something stupid
to keep me from getting

up.  To keep me from
walking.  I tip my hat

to everything I pass
during today’s

never ending joy.

Sunday, May 24, 2015


Otto is shopping
with his brother
in Chinatown, ex-
changing emails
as I write this.  I
keep forgetting what
everything is called. 
There’s butter and
flower and ball and
pig with mustache. 
But what’s the
purpose of each?
I know that this is
umbrella but what
does it do?  Is it a
thing to grab hold
of so that you rise
toward heaven?  The
elevator is dizzy and
the books that protrude
from that wall of blue
are checking me out.
That wall is spindrift.
The foam of the sea
that is captured and
poured into a por-
celain cup is my
breakfast of
green tea.

Saturday, May 23, 2015


California Poem: The Sequel

I am no fan of spoiler alerts,
so here’s one from me to you: 
at the end of the season we all
wake up in the shower together
and it slowly dawns us that
this episode is really hot.

Yep.  During the season finale,
it slowly dawns on each of us
while we’re lathering and
shampooing and whatnot
during this racy communal
shower scene that every
single episode this season—
up until we all hop into
the tub together, that is—
has been nothing but
one gigantic buzzkill.
It was all just a night-
mare; it was merely
a dream. 

I really do apologize. 
I just couldn’t help myself. 

Please.  Continue your
binge-watching.  And 
have a wonderful afternoon.

Thursday, May 21, 2015


            Grammar no
not welcome.  Hush.
             —Cassie Lewis

Woke up with a pair of
flags and the memory
of a heartbeat.  A gor-
geous day, like your
body after three-dollar
martinis.  Like your
body of work on top
of the wardrobe.  Do
note that I’ve had a
really sore foot and
the sound of the fan
(which I just now
switched to heat)
purrs like Coco
at my feet.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015


Your Clever Glows Over Everything

Situational and stolen.
For my own benefit.
From a few words in
a book that came in a

lovely brown paper bag.
I almost always throw
the bag, the coverlet,
the whatever-you-call-it,

into the recycle bin (the
one we finally purchased
after living here something
like seven years, right?).

“Just who are you talking
to,” glares Coco the Loco,
who’s wrapped into a
skeptical curl—all foetal-

feline alert and everything.
And should I even begin to
answer?  I do, in one long
breath, thinking about how

we (us, some bodies) nearly
lost you (you!) to the clover
a couple of months and a
year ago.  But you arrived

home like nothing had been
overcome, not even a tiny
hurdle, a C-, so ... alive.
Your clever was never

as apparent as it should
have been.  Whereas,
me, I always believed
that I was the clever one.