mdci

I read everyone’s twitter and felt so connected

                                                       —Jim Behrle

What are you derived from?  What derives you?

I don’t joke with strangers anymore.  Except about

Jennifer Lopez.  To whom I’m now deeply indebted.

I’m feeling giddy.  I do write.  Sitting in front of $50.

U2 album in boarded Borders still reverberates (a

storyboard for a final class project).  Daydreaming

the wired charm of inelegant disclosure while

looking out at the big Christmas tree in Union

Square.  I’m reading Iduna insufficiently lit,

thinking of kari on my couch, a housewarming

on Bush Street.  Determine when unemployment

ends, laundry, water plants, sunglasses for the L.A.

trip.  Losing two pairs of prescription sunglasses

in one week.  I keep broaching the subject (in-

elegantly, insecurely) that is the false victim of

our loudnesses.  A blanket of silence, very Zen.

An earnest desparation ensues, becomes louder

lies or mumbled nothingnesses.  A conversation

with the California Street sidewalk stippled with

unintentional vibrato (tragedic, operatic).  Wreaked

by uncontrollable shivers, a body heaves such a

melody.  Tomorrow, the calm swans of Boston.

mdc

I Mean It

The urgent violence that is honesty

calls me out of a long nap, like a

cat smashed between a row of books

and a wall.  If one describes oneself as

charming?  And then ducks back into a

hut, pencils I’m so frightened of losing?

I used to be sober when I was serious.

The mental capacity to stomach en-

joyment.

That was wild.  Slowly I take each

book out of the bag, stack them on

the table, become a person who wants to

hide his true self.

Nothing is the right way.  Just a smile

to enjoy.  The delight of a mustache

over a drink of cool water.  Shopping

for groceries (frightened of losing).

It’s a shame, this grasping of my red

interior.  Nobody’s mouth to put a

finger on (to shush).  What’s a list for,

anyway?

I appreciate a residential neighborhood

I can call my own.  The ironic beauty of

certain vandalisms.  A capacity for with-

holding evidence.  The smell of a

freshly mown lawn.

It was a narrow escape.  We clutch our

hearts.  Enjoy the walk.  Enjoy the ride.

mdxcix

Almost the Exact Quote

Here the snow bleeds clouds.  Such

happiness to be taken on a ride

in a train with a penny engine.

The toys in this dream are binary.

Chalk-colored coal or coal-colored

chalk.  I enjoy it immensely because

now I want to build something bigger.

Bright face of such happiness, why can’t I

enjoy more?  [Complacently moving from

Point A to Point B]  Why am I frightened of

losing or just along for the ride?  I don’t want

to want nothing but am overwhelmed or

bloated with wanting.  Instantly I want also

something else.  I write it down.  The page

says hello, forcing my gaze out the window.  I get

distracted by an American flag and page 1 of

Yoga for Dummies.  I live with a pink bear

who wears a very tall crown made of paper¹. 

¹That reads “Made in June 2[_ _ _]” and “Otto rules!”

mdxcviii

Of course.

Refusing to switch off the attention diversion switch:

booted beings one floor above; slow gait. 

They left!

They fell asleep.  They’re watching football.  I am...

breathing.

Are you spreading yourself too thin?  Of course.

Of possible interest: constantly evacuating yourself.

No!  No!   They are walking again!  Very slowly.

And they have invited more boots.  Boot-beings

entertaining more boot-beings.  Boots, party of

[impossible to accommodate]!

Page 1 of Zen for Dummies.  A book with

his dorky picture next to mine.  A terrapin.

A terrapin?

Constantly evaluating.  I am constantly

evaluating myself.  I am a failure.  What have

I ever built or unbuttoned?  A chainsaw film with

tall green creatures adorned solely with boots.

Appropriately gargantuan.  Chestnut brown or

slightly ash-colored.  Suede boots.

Earth is in utter chaos.  It is a horrific invasion.

Soon (before the demise of our race) we

identify with these gigantic (Grinch-like)

beings.  They are sympathetic characters.

mdxcvii

Nominated for an Ernest Borgnine

                                     —Kit Robinson

This morning we all went to the gym together.

We observe money.  It talks gibberish.  It smells so

good.  It is such a perfect thing to do.

We live here.  Who am I to say how you should

perform in this circus?

After yesterday, spending it all, lighting another

fire under it, we are whisked away.  To the

movies.

The desire to mean something when you are told

that you only have 164 gigabytes available.  Chasing a

hummingbird all over the city (clutching a very heavy

camera).

In times like these I almost convince myself.  I am a

delusion.  I’m a book with his dorky picture next to mine.

I am giddy. 

It is Christmastime.

     It’s easy enough to start

     to make two lumps of coal: just close your eyes.

                                                      —Albert Goldbarth

mdxcvi

Read with Robot Voice

In forty minutes is the beginning of my birthday

which will last ten days.  Eleven more years until I am

“go go” ... (so I get started in eleven years)

mdxcv

Scar 2

Scary words with friends.  I miss

scoring a lot of points being twisted.

Like Bela Lugosi, maybe (as played by

Joaquin Phoenix?), picking snot out of

children’s eyes.  His own children’s, perhaps,

but we’re all caught unawares and

flunking Celebrity 101 (is it one-

oh-one anymore?).

With dull faces we’re back to our

commitment to the community:

See Dick dunk pail in ale.  See

Jane pour pail on head as if

[Whoops!] hat and fall pell-

mell down hill [Whoops!].

Sean mentions a writer friend

who avoids punctuation (&

other emotica) because the

WORDS should do all the

WORK.

A fiery apostrophe ensues.

Signed,

Forty and Flailing

P.S.  In perhaps twenty minutes I can

        forty-fie the ass-end of this blah

        beast with a bit more [upside-down

        exclamation point] FLOURISH !  (Yeh?)

mdxciv

I Lost My Drycleaning at a Birthday Party

And ever since I’ve been working on them,

speaking of 2.5 years ago.  I’m up to 144

now and still caring.  But he can make me turn

from ‘all is glorious’ to MONSTER in half an

hour (wild exaggeration).

[The opposite of hyperbole is __________.]

I trust the way Sean makes me feel all

wrong at dinner.  I’m in such a better place now.

Particularly diary entries.

Scuttlebutt is an aphrodisiac.  At least for me.

These things come and go to make us more

interesting.  Such a perfect thing to do

after spending all day with the in-laws.

Can they legally fire me for that?

I hate to ask but is it okay that I like guys?

I know we don’t stumble into each other

very often.  It’s like a

birthday gift, speaking of two and a half

years ago.  That’s what I say, C Monster.

Dear Sigmund,

I know it’s confusing & all.  But you’re the

best bunch of zeroes a guy could ever ask for.

Am I dreaming?

              & a guy like me,

            HogsYerKisses (not my usual screenname)

mdxciii

Stop the Sludge!

I see no pretense in David except an

opulently intense desire to control his

image.

These aren’t teardrops.  It’s just

water from the fountain here.

Awaken to an aspirin sunlight.  All this

fooling around at one-four-four.  Men in

gas masks shouting ‘One-Four-Four,

One-Four-Four,’ and a jerk to signify

‘Take him away!’

At four minutes to two I have a

phone interview in an hour.  Or an

hour and four minutes.

Let’s make it five.

mdxcii

Words with Friends

Dear June,

Your snapdragons are killing me!  I say,

we are quite a perfect pair.  Are you not

on fire?

I live the life of Riley.  What a loser, I tell you,

with my chicken noodle and my apple enzyme.

This is heady but I’m tacit.  And you’ve got glam

despite the divots.  Have another Strawberry C?

[I sweat through my issues envisioning a MASTER.]

And each with our own wonderful qualities.  Make me

turn on a dime from ‘all is glorious’ just to maintain our

dark side.

This is a liquid photograph.  Here, have a sip like a

chorus of frogs (bag clips). 

Change our astor into a name like Numb.  Work

collaboratively until it will end (possibly).

A mum is a chrysanthemum is what the lady told me.

                                        Luv & gladiolas,

                                        SleepsWithOak (is not my screenname)

mdxci

A heart beat is a unit of measure like an ice cube

                                                         —Kit Robinson

I say we’re quite a perfect pair.  A peach of a pear

(and he laughs).  I ask if he’ll draw raindrops all over

the umbrella (in the future he gets up from his desk

in the kitchen and walks into the living room).  I

finish a giant cake and ask for more raindrops.

mdxc

Multiple Orgasms

A routine he’s revived recently which I LOVE.

A scrubdown shortly after he walks into my

office and flips his lid. All these umbrellas &

no twist?  So point is I was very happy this

morning.  Which has nothing to do with

death or dying, right?  Turn the page and

this is it?  So I go back to the old dreams,

the ones I can remember.  There are so

few of them.  In one, here I am.  In

another, he’s already and finally

apologized.  I am envisioning

he is a monster.  I like monster

in several of its constructs.  But

not in the movie The Hangover Part II.

While vacationing in Hong Kong

and Tokyo (two weeks apiece,

a little over a year apart), whenever I’d

mention I was vacationing (and a whole

two weeks?!) the response would in-

evitably be: So why are you vacationing

here?  Why aren’t you in Thailand?

Next year I won’t remember any of this.

So I rename it Flying By the Seat

of My Pants.  Which I LOVE.

mdlxxxix

     I could talk to you for flowers

                                   —Kit Robinson

Tonight is feeling social.  So it is

disclosed.  He proposes an open

relationship because he’s missed

out.  I haven’t.  Such is the stuff

that’s always about rings.  And me

with such knobby fingers.  I keep want-

ing Buddhism or a unique way to

disclose something important.

Like love.  Only.  Flash (Gordon)

forward and I’m grasping at

ludicrous constructs.  Down on

my knees.  And not for flogging.

All this fooling around is so

innocent in comparison.  [Bow head; silence.]

mdlxxxviii

     what i really want

     is to scatter

     my own

     ashes

             —CAConrad

I’m having too much fun to

pick the day I’ll die.  Can

that be right?  It’s Tuesday

after a strong Saturday

night.  No ashes but a

ring of wires aching for

fantasy eardrums.  Some-

times it’s creepy what I

predict.  Or how creepy-

poignant it is to pick up a

page written [some

time] ago with

eerie resonance;

say, the day after a

nuclear disaster,

for example.  Or

I was dancing

and I nearly had...

a time warp?  A

Rubik’s Cube

staring at another

Rubik’s Cube

in some sort of a

stand-off (or 3

Rubik’s Cubes)?

Softer back-

pedaling and

less disclosure.

Or don’t sweat

the small stuff.

I’m getting

way too

serious,

lately.

I’m taking

everything

so seriously.

mdlxxxvii

Woe is...

No, I don’t want any.

Yes, I want some.

No, I don’t want any.

Yes, I want some.

No, I don’t want any.

Yes, I want some.

No, I don’t want any.

Yes, I want some.

mdlxxxvi

Worst time for a lisp issue.

Set up like so—in relation to where the

tit sits.  Teeth of an undisclosed number.

Fogroll.  Argue about the crotchet, an

odd or stubborn notion, in the fogroll.

Issue a Steven for a one on one.  Crawl out

on top.  Find myself in anything I can’t

enjoy reading.  Take off your glasses

and compare to Kenneth’s.  Last night

after Nip / Tuck.  Too much going on

to talk about.  Or something like that.

Do you think this is demeaning in any

way answers a broader question.  Be

the one you are.  The worst time to

sleep is between eleven in the morning

and one in the afternoon.  Set up the

soup in relation to the teeth.  Sit.

mdlxxxv

Retreat!

Because Bush won the erection?

mdlxxxiv

BTW

Retreat!  Get myself together is a more

comprehensive life list.  That is what

6 reasons I am depressed is for.  I have

no morals?  Because I may be a boyfriend?

Anyway, I’m boring.  Who doesn’t have the

freedom he wants because he weighs too

much?  Because he still loves haters?  Be-

cause he got high last weekend and started

calling old flames (to go out drinking or

whatever because I downloaded way too much

poet)?  Because I am a lousy goal?  Who isn’t?

Because winning the election cannot reach his

goals?  Because no motivation to get out of the

city?  Because he wants a massage?  Who isn’t?

mdlxxxiii

A Cirrus Clown

Time, corrosive time.  On the

airplane of love.  With an

envelope.  It’s an old house

of pills.  Time, explosive

time.  Event unnecessary.

Burgeoning spirit.  Sync

in progress.  A cloudful

of unbalanced nectar.

Of unenveloped loam.

A beautiful rainy day

full of go home and

Arafat dead.  Walk

up the hill and write.

9:05am.  The pen-

ultimate chapter

of Stevens.  It’s

not a strike now.

Triple latté dis-

infectant.

mdlxxxii

So As Not To

Repitition.  Thor ate a

whole box of Pop Tarts

and was still hungry.

I used to do that.