Wednesday, July 29, 2015

mmcdxxviii

...but, um, I, there’s also an idea that if you have a good poet almost everything he says
is interesting in some way, at least, you know, in the sense of life’s work, you know,
everything you write is one huge poem in some weird sense. I kind of like that idea better.

                                       —Jack Collom (during an “interview” with Reed Bye)

                               ahistorical
                               an hysterical
                               antihistamine

ahistorical


Tuesday, July 28, 2015

mmcdxxvii

48

Think of the
Sleep I’ve
Lost. Or of

Ignorance
Being bliss.
Settle in

At the day spa
Without a
Shower

Due to
The drought.
30th reunion

Is a no
Go. Invite
Everyone

To San
Francisco
Instead.

Place a
Roommate
Wanted ad

To balance
The bevy
Of job interviews.

“Assistants
Required.” Reel in
The dream of

Regular 
2-day
Weekends.

Reel in/The dream of/Regular/2-day/Weekends.


Monday, July 27, 2015

mmcdxxvi

Wandering Niche-less

     It’s all too-natural to deflate natural
     geometry via anthropocentric suckage.
                                 —Jack Collum

It is 11am. Not
9:30am. I am
thinking of an
itch between
1 and 10. This
day (disdain) is
never approri-
ate enough. I
wanna start
again. The
shower. The
grey clouds
in my bowl
of breakfast.
Lying in bed.
The  cat’s en-
ergy. This
day is reel-
ing through
a drought of
street signs;
signs and
stoplights,
an historic-
al treasure.

     (as if nature were a hobby or an acquired taste) 
                                         —Jack Collum

Del Rey Chocolatier


Friday, July 24, 2015

mmcdxxv

     One morning a three-colored blackbird appears,
     a blackbird from overseas,
     insisting I return.

                                    —Luciano Erba
                                       (translated from Italian
                                       by Ann Snodgrass)

I’d like to be able to say that to someone
someday. But this is just the slowest!
Hark back to M O V I E S: taken at

a leisurely pace, (no rush to finish),
which, for the most part, have
always done the trick (mood

upper). But then I started
fidgeting. Started falling
asleep in the middle.

Started walking out
in the middle. Now,
perhaps, it’s the song

that apples mood
(I
am slowly taking a
sip). A Chorus Line

(the film). Ugh! I
thought I just ate it
up! Loved it when I

saw it back in...must’ve
been undergrad. I tried
watching it again this week.

How could I have ever?!
So, we grow up (or out,
or down), but man, I need

an antidote. On to the
Cabaret (film version again,
the same one I tried to

watch when in college, but
now...?): It’s P E R F E C T !
So, long story short, a

three-colored blackbird
shows up. And I am caught 
without my camera. (So sad.)

The Victoria


Thursday, July 23, 2015

mmcdxxiv

Dark Morello

After the
cherry
incident

the kitchen
looked like 
a crime scene.

mirror mirror morello


Sunday, July 19, 2015

mmcdxxiii

Frozen Chicken of My Heart

I had scrambled eggs mixed with
a microwavable vegan frozen Indian
entree for breakfast less than one
hour ago. While taking the vegan
tikka box from the freezer, I grabbed
the cold brick that is what remains
of the soup chicken. Maybe I’m a
hypochondriac, or maybe I’m not
a hypochondriac, but it pleased me
to the edge of giddy when you
dropped by after working all day
just to make me a homemade bowl
of chicken soup. I’d had the sniffles
all day long and would communicate
only via complaints about coming
down with a cold and all of its
inconveniences. “The way to a
man’s heart...” knowingly
proclaims everybody’s
mother, including my own,
whose apple and pecan pies
were absolutely bar none.
But I catch myself standing
with this brick of a chicken
in my hand and a stupid grin
on my face for a while, remem-
bering that, when I was a kid,
whenever I’d have a bit of fever,
a cough, or a scratchy throat,
Mom’s solution, without fail,
was a can of Campbell’s con-
densed chicken noodle soup,
an iced-over cup of 7-Up, 
and a few saltines.

chicken brick


Saturday, July 18, 2015

mmcdxxii

The sun has never shown this dimly
on the white chairs of the aged.

                                       —Luciano Erba
                                          (translated from Italian
                                          by Ann Snodgrass)

It is surely true that I
think more than I am.

“Don’t think too much,”
he says, sweetly, earnestly.

It is dumb logic that got
me here in the first place.

I haven’t a penny to my
name, but I like where

I am, overwhelmingly.
Given the ubiquity of ex-

cessive debt, that cliché
should’ve already been

discontinued—at least
in relation or reference

to myself—in perpetuity.

last day


Friday, July 17, 2015

mmcdxxi

A little voice inside my head said:
“Don’t look back, you can never look back”

           —Don Henley (from Boys of Summer)

Among the several
grocery items that
he brought home
last night was a
bottle of olive oil,
which, when I saw
in the kitchen this
morning gave me
the distinct imp-
ression that it was
saying “Good morn-
ing!” and waving
directly to me.

"Good morning!"


Thursday, July 16, 2015

mmcdxx

The House of Whistle

Organic birds
chop the morning
into seven after-
noons. No colors,
just charcoal.
Famous last
words reduce
life to sediment.
I would be dead
were it not for
telekinesis. I
draw the blinds
and there you are
wearing a lampshade
for a helmet. It’s
a thousand wonders
I ever noticed the
hippo on the road 
to nowhere.

hippos on the road to nowhere


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

mmcdxix

The Cutest Mash

It’s really just me,
isn’t it – my glass
is the one that’s half
empty – but I can’t
shake the notion that

there’s been an extreme
abundance of negativity
bouncing around for
too long now. So, how
lovely it was to receive

your glorious email this
morning. It was a won-
derful pick-me-up,
at once generous and
perfectly concise; an

“all is well with the
world, after all” that
could only have come
from you. And, while
it did not include the

phrase “this song
apples mood” – at
least as far as my rem-
embrances go (though
I will admit that I’ve

eaten and drunk a good
three times since),
that’s precisely what
I’ve been humming
ever since I put it

down. And, what’s
more, I’m ever so
pleased to report that,
right up to this very
moment, I remain

yours, del-
usionally
enthralled.

delusionally


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

mmcdxviii

Among the several
grocery items that
he brought home
last night was a
bottle of olive oil,
which, when I saw
in the kitchen this
morning gave me
the distinct imp-
ression that it
was saying “Good
morning!” and
waving directly 
to me.

oink


Monday, July 13, 2015

mmcdxvii

You’re gonna sleep like a baby tonight.
                                                —U2

Apathetic
Undignified
Walking home
Pissed is so
Uncute
I pass at begin
At the beginning
But here I sit
Next to
Sleeping
Beauty
Drawing
Energy
From death
And the
Dreams
That
Aren’t
Even
My own

Sunday, July 12, 2015

mmcdxvi

I was kinda down, but now I’m up, but then I’ll go down.
               —a friend’s response to my “How are you doing?”

To look out the window
of your very own place
and view a church built
in the 15th century....


St. Pierre Cathedral,
Geneva, Switzerland
(a tour of Brian’s new
apartment via Facetime)

Saturday, July 11, 2015

mmcdxv

Half of a Holiday Inn Poem

         Is it dirty
         does it look dirty
         that’s what you think of in the city
                                         —Frank O’Hara

Drawing of Damir divulging.
Everybody disagrees but me.
Not half possible. I take a third
of the one of the two beds.  Only
the two of us, fighting that beautiful
fight (sleep being “top priority” vs.
“complete waste of time”).....

After the which (those damned
shooters!) I’m about to order
another one.  So, after a somersault
(what a lovely thing to do!) these
silly little ditties.  Including a
graphic depiction of a bottle
of olive oil. 

Yes, as always, it’s saying
“Hello!” and “Good morning!”
to me.  Among other things.

Friday, July 10, 2015

mmcdxiv

The Standstill

I order four “Miyagi” shooters, in
which a tiny oyster is served
inside a not-so-tiny glass of

spiced vodka (times four, or 
somesuch), and I think Let’s
see how far this goes!   I order 

a Cosmo from some ski-bunny,
or, rather, perhaps, from a
skiing machine, or from a

dust-bunny up in the sky.  It
obviously has gotten a bit
fuzzy by now, this bit of news.

And while I am shooting 
at oysters, a pianist begins
to tickle the ivories somewhere.

Oh, there.  At the other end of 
the bar (or thus go my fuzzy notes). 
And, hey, it’s Dan!  It’s Dan the Man!

Dan is my friend (for whom I’ve
been waiting a very long time, I
think). Dan, Dan, the Piano Man—

and this part is absolutely certain—
sings: “When the Missiles Whistle.”
And it’s not even Christmas.  

The Cosmopolitan Bar on the 
west-side of the Rincon Center 
no longer exists.  I know this, but 
there's so much more to the story.

There always is, I meander.  But  
it's unofficial.  And most assuredly
unbeknownst.  My scribbles fuzzy

into thin air (as the somber lyrics
of Dan's croons often remind us
they do), then simply disappear.



Thursday, July 09, 2015

mmcdxiii

One Last Chance to Drink More Than Just Toast

This rare about-face
should have placed me
at mere consensus.

Yet here I am, as usual,
clumsily slumped at the
odd end of the parlor,

as if on the dark side
of the moon.  But not
in a good way.  Nope.

I’m as taut as a ball
of rubberbands and
as parched as a saltine

in the Sahara.  Scorched!
And utterly sober.  Too
too utterly (as in dry-

humping an Egyptian
pyramid whilst simul-
taneously finishing off

the bottom of a bag of
salt & vinegar-flavored
potato chips).    {gasp?}

Wednesday, July 08, 2015

mmcdxii

Chew Toy

Don’t make
your day into
a parade (what
a spectacle!),
unless, of course,
you love the
spectacular. A
plan might be
nice (for extra
spice), but a
plan requires
time, and I don’t
even know what
day today is.
Did anyone see
that coming?
,
I wonder. Does
anyone see that
in me?
.... Ah,
but it’s all so
very stupid: my
niche isn’t yours.
And that’s perfect-
ion. But what is
your niche (or mine,
for that matter)?
And more to the
point, What’s
passion without a
niche?
And I'm
guessing that
you’re thinking,
What’s a niche
without passion?

At which all,
itchy, I simply
collapse.
Old Man
Sorrow
, sings
Nina Simone.
And she’s
completely
right, of course!

red heart


Tuesday, July 07, 2015

mmcdxi

...but, um, I, there’s also an idea that if you have a good poet almost everything he says
is interesting in some way, at least, you know, in the sense of life’s work, you know,
everything you write is one huge poem in some weird sense.  I kind of like that idea better.
                                                         —Jack Collom (during an “interview” with Reed Bye)

Now that I have written
the hundred thousand lines
you never asked for, shall I:

    a) perform them all
        for you, right now,
        from beginning to end;

    b) expire; or

    c) dutifully retreat back
        into the Dog of Job?

Please kindly respond within
five seconds (unless you’d like
to witness my attempt at choices
a, b, and c in simultaneity!).

Monday, July 06, 2015

mmcdx

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

pamplemousse
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
cognizance,

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...).