Thursday, November 29, 2018

mmdccciii

Oct. 30

If I say it,

it is true.

If I say it,

it is true.

My writing

lacks logic.

Like me, you

say, going 

from tid-

bit to tid-

bit as if

everything 

is in a pro-

per place –

has an app-

ropriate loc-

ale, one thing

leading, con-

sequently, to

the other. Like

narrative anyone

can follow, and 

occasionally nod in
vigorous agreement,

as if to relay “This

makes sense, I con-

cur!” Like chron-

ology, like an

engaging bed-

time story told

with the primary

purpose of putting

one to sleep. Sound-

ly, with intermittent

dreams (anti-logic,

experimental poet-

ics, nonsequiturs, 

etc.).  I arose at

seven am. I lunched

at eleven.  I interview 

at two. I sleep around

one in the morning. I

am uncloudy and I

rate the logic of

my world.  Breathe

in.  Breathe out.

This day is very

alive.  In fact,

it rocks! Today

rocks!  And I rule!

Oh, happy day

of the living.


Sunday, November 18, 2018

mmdcccii

Art Not Play?

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again

       whom we love.
                                                       —Frank O’Hara
 
Today,
the city
clearer,
I walk it.
 
Up and
down its
many hills.
 
The Far
East is
as far
away as
El Segundo.
 
Which is
either
very far
away or
very close.
 
It depends
on your
perspective.