Sunday, May 01, 2016

mmdlxxi

Atrophied Paperwork

I’m feeling kind of wasted
life.  Somebody figure out

how to bomb shelters yet?
My hiding places.  But I have

no cents for doing anything,
like last night, drinking it’s

the end of the world, and
it probably was.  For eleven

years, a clicking noise,
many mornings, out my

(hauteur) bedroom win-
dow, just on the other

side of the screen.  I
have yet to determine

or decide upon the sores
of it / the sort of it / the

sour-source of it, this
intermittent clicking

outside our bedroom
window.  Have I ever

even attempted to
do so?  I—

wounded—
wonder.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

mmdlxx

The Burnt Sugar Brigade

There’s no way you can feel …
     or
This new Star Wars trailer makes me …

“This has to be the new me,” I write
     today
upon “processed panda poop”

I sweat a few beads while rearranging
     my
makeshift bookshelf

which includes all of the books I’m
     currently
reading (I put it up after we lost the panda.

Or not.) ...
     I
am writing

presently upon a product made
     100%
of “recycled and odorless panda poo”

upon which I find it quite
     difficult
to pen these few, distant words.

mmdlxix

Tune In Tomorrow For My Demise

I’m startled.
Yesterday
I checked out

the new mall
down the hill
which houses

a gourmet grocer
in its basement.
While I’m very

excited about
this fact, it
nevertheless

depressses
me that the
grocer remains

hungry—
almost to
the edge of

starvation—
in that lonely
shopping

center base-
ment for
two

very long
decades.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

mmdlxviii

      I was made for loving you, baby,
      You were made for loving me.
                                            —KISS

It was a couple of months
before I even realized that
he was living here with me
(It had been a rough couple
of years).  Can this even be
correct?  Is it summary or

pretext?  Yeah.  It’d been
a really lousy couple of
years, the existence of
which I’d never have
even begun to wrap
my head around,

until then, the couple
of years that lasted
at least a decade,
(and not in a good,
way)....    He always
had to stop at cross-

walks—to either
wait for the green
pedestrian sign
or else to wait
for passersby
to stop and wait

with him.  I write
to total strangers
every day.  No-
body seems to
mind.  But if
caught talking

to myself, or my
computer, or to
a washing ma-
chine, he always
responds.  Often
so abruptly that

I’m startled.
Yesterday
I checked out

(tune in tomorrow for my demise)

Monday, April 25, 2016

mmdlxvii

...I Still Remember Now

tt in 1973, sorry),
then I sauntered
uphill where I
fell promptly
to sleep,

only to
dream of
what remains
of my own dirt-
y laundry, which

you can see air-
ing on the line
presently,
through the
time lapses

or capsules
or glasses.
It must be
one of those
rare moments,

like the first
time we saw
the Scissor
Sisters per-
form (giving

such meaning
to “Live at the
Warfield!”),
a freebie
that

was
loose-
ly ass-
ociated
with

concept-
ual love.

(the end)