mmmmmxxv

I Love Pop

is a loaded response,
sure, but with all of my
fifty-seven year old heart.

So, if you’re one of those
He looks like he’s got his
shit together but such,

I dunno, wasteful or
juvenile hobbies! then
get lost. Unless, of course,

you want to talk about it.
Because that I will do. I’m
not saying I’ll convince you

of anything, but if there’s
one wasteful hobby I do have
a craven knack for, it’s talking.

mmmmmxxiv

for brenda,

cheerleader extraordinaire,
objective observer and (i could
say non-partisan if for no other
obvious reason but that
she was) mom’s younger sister’s
bestie back in the day, maybe to
the end—i all but lost my
connection to my aunt
years ago because she
got too political for
comfort. one has
to draw lines to
remain healthy
and reasonable.
but brenda, she
was all compassion,
all encouragement.
that is who she was
to me these past few
years, at any rate.
brenda, mother of
greg, with whom i
graduated from high
school, we were neighbors
growing up, they lived just up
the hill over the pasture from us
for my entire childhood existence,
so we shared birthday party moments,
tornado warnings in storm cellars at my
aunt’s, babysitting moments, garage sales.
brenda passed this week, maybe just a day
or two ago. the last word i got was a reaction
to me posting it had been a bad week—this
was just about a week ago. by bad week i was
just talking about the election, being worked a bit
too much, being condescended toward a few
times and then having to apologize for it. her
response, usually nothing but charm and
positivity: “ditto.” she’d just gotten home
from the hospital. she always had a way
to turn mountains of turmoil into veritable
clouds of glitter dust. what silly things 

we call problems. now we’ve lost
a beacon. the lifeline through
to my aunt grows dimmer.
and what pride i’ve left
remains further in check.
electricity, in general,
is less intense. i’m
grateful to have
known you, and
for that warmth.
how i might
possibly keep
that fire
flickering
for however
much longer...

mmmmmxxiii

T-Mobile Annie

Imagine it’s a dozen years ago. And
you were given an assignment that
you are just now completing. Such as
this sonnet, if you can call it that without

any triangulations, the prequel to Credit Limit.
So far so good, won’t be much of it to worry
about. I dropped that horrid company years
ago. But were they better times? Is AT&T any

better? No and resoundingly, yes. I’m not sure

what was accomplished. Another day, another few
dollars further into debt. We pick our fights, with
fraud at every turn (the spam!). But do as the gurus:

tune ‘em in, turn ‘em off often, averages a win-win.

Oh, and don't forget to pay your bill in decent time.

mmmmmxxii

Credit Limit

I don’t like bringing up
this subject. I don’t like
talking about it at all, even
indirectly. (Where I grew up,

we’d say directly—or dreckly—
to mean soon or closer to now
than soon.) Hey, my credit scores
are at record highs. How’s that

for dreck? As I deboard another
job, I grab a new card with a
thousand dollar limit. It’ll
surely come in handy,

given that I have to depart
the country directly.

mmmmmxxi

slowly going nowhere

today’s biggest clam
or is mom’s gif. the
singular reaction to
my post of yesterday.

does this mean she
can now see me read
my poem when she
clicks on the link to it?

i’ll need to call her to
find out. tomorrow.
what shall i do tonight?
i could use the rest of

my dayquil buzz to finish
watching the substance.

mmmmmxx

Federico and Salvador

inside the poet’s clasp
arrives a cold egg
that feels like frost
on a spring morning
in Cadaqués

suddenly a
grieving bird
interrupts the
symphony of
scoring and

scratching
of plush reds
and fresh-plucked
olives that scrub dawn
clean from the canvas

the poet glimpses
the painter’s brow
as it weeps or melts
protruding like a lighthouse
from the canvas

one might discern
from a reflection
in the landscape window
the painter holding
a palette of grapes

more birds discharge
a salvo of twitters
overwhelmed
by the deepening
sorrowful chirrups

disrupting his pose
the poet tilts his head
for a better listen
and the painter
would have it so

beyond the window
Andalusia’s come
with its cante jondo
a harvest of bloods
war-torn and jubilant

the painter
materializes
beside
his canvas
wearing castanets

with which he gouges
his love’s
earthen cheeks
accompaniment to the birds’
and lovers’ rejoinder of trills

mmmmmxix

Unbound Couscous

It gives me heartburn
having to tell them about
the keys to the mailbox,
but my needing to pee

is nothing subconscious,
it’s just diabetes. Remind
me to google whether or if
this is a high or low sugar

thing, and how or if it might
be avoided. To devoid one
self. To void a check. Is this
just a segue built in order to

mourn the loss of personal
checks? I get up to pee.

mmmmmxviii

Playing to an Empty House

Here’s a little morning monologue
I’m feeling out, starting to get my
self back as I wake up. Start to
get yourself back. This is what
I hear this when I turn on the
teevee to watch a new episode,
this time of The Bear. Television,
I was saying to someone not long
ago, is my friend. I should visit
more often. It’s been a while. I
just came out of a pretty deep sleep
and think that watching an episode
will surely wake me up for real.
My stomach is a bit uneasy.
Nothing like it was over the
nauseous these days, the
dominos in my head start
tipping. You know, these
words don’t have to heal
anything, anyone, me.
But maybe today they
need to do something.
Today. Today, they need
to be infused with hope.
I need hope. On the
show, as I’m typing,
the cast are going on
about teamwork. But
are we really in this thing
together? Sorry, I had
to ask. And indeed, I’m
awake now. It’s working.
And I am very alone.
That permeates. It
really does this Sunday
morning, just as it did
last night as I was falling
asleep, all day having thought
maybe I’ll go dancing tonight. I
fell asleep around the time I’d have
gotten in line at the club. There
would’ve been others there.
Dancing and whatnot. This
past week, this job, not to
go into any of that, but
the being alone thing,
which is all I’ll get at
today, here, with this,
that being alone can
truly permeate. It
can be a demon, too.
Horrible. Horrifying.
But today, this weekend,
this past week and all of
its ups and downs, I’m
definitely not saying it’s
okay, this not having
any others present, with
whom I might soar,
whether up or down
or just gliding over it all
together, is peaceful. It’s
calm. All of these isn’t
really who I am, who I
think I am, how I usually
feel, who I’m meant to be—
or that’s how it seems to me—
but this personal trip feels
pretty good, like an accomp
lishment, the serenity of it
on a Sunday, with a bit of a
warmth lighting it, that to
morrow will surely evolve,
into motivation, to go,
to go for it, to run,
to get what’s needed
done. That’s all I want
to convey, even if,
as is the case today,
I think, more than at
most any other time,
to nobody but myself.

mmmmmxvii

In Times Like These

      A well in-doubt
      top rubbed my words
      into the butcher’s

      white foam.
                      —Robert Glück

I can be funny. I mean
I am a pretty comical guy.
Perhaps what I really am,
more than just about any

thing else, is a clown. It’s
not that I take great pride
in my comedic timing (I, too,
can pause until the laughter

has died down just enough)—
whatever, I could be funny on
stage, with a good script. I
love laugh out loud funny. As

for my senses and sensibility,
it’s about as high up on the
catharsis scale as it gets. But
am I funny? I can do dork

humor, which, like dad humor
is famously not that funny, is
renowned for thinking it pretty
hilarious when the humor lies

in, well, in the dork, dad or
dorky dad believing in the joke,
dry as it might be. Who wants
to be known as a guy who calls

himself a poet? That’s not the
way I’d want to be known. Or
would it be? If I had to choose
between thinks he’s funny (right)

and calls himself a poet (not
that anyone would know). Or
even if I am pretty good at
writing these, on occasion, I’ll

admit it: the rockstar I want
most to be is a stand-up. One
that gets actual laughs. But I
think only because I know I’ve

gotten plenty of them. I have.
Be it on-stage during a perform
ance of some sort, somewhere
amongst a few people at a party,

or hanging with one of my old
friends. The key, it seems to
me, is not to come across as
taking it all too seriously.

There seem to be a lot of
humor-free poets out there.
I might like a few of them,
enjoy their work, make an

extra effort to read a volume
or two by these serious folks.
But, in general, there seems
to be something truly lacking

with what these folks send out
into the world. Maybe there are
times when we should not be
laughing. Or maybe, decorum

be damned, a titter or two is the
only thing standing between an
awful day and one that cannot
be remembered without some

warmth, and a fondness, a
nostalgia, that can’t but spread
at least a partial smile across
that gorgeous face of yours.

mmmmmxvi

The Gods Escaped

The poetry novel takes a
noir turn, which is fine since
all I seek is an escape. But
escapism can be so lonely.

I wait days before I turn on
the television, afraid of its
normalizing voices and its
look-how-I-can-pretend-to-

weigh-each-side-with-levity
journalism. Which isn’t
journalism any more. The
news isn’t dead or even fake.

I brought you all here to show
you this humongous junkyard
full of teevees for a reason.
Yes, as far as the eyes can see.

mmmmmxv

What’s a Compass For, Anyway?

I avoid the news and
social media for as
long as I can stand it,
now about 24 hours.

Isn’t that something?
It’s such an impossi
bility. I just don’t
want any of it to

normalize as the
dust settles, so to
speak. It doesn’t
take a pundit to

articulately and
meticulously de
duce (wrap words
round and around

into and then out
of meaning) what
happened. I was
here the whole

time. I have eyes
and I have ears.
Which is why this
mourning is the

hardest thing I’ve
had to endure aside
from the sucker punch
that put me off-balance

in the first place and
landed me in this booby
trapped labyrinth for an
almost unendurable time,

fighting like mad to get
what I once called life
back. This mongrel-
infested maze has be

come the norm. I
need a little time
before I double down
into the trenches on

this one. Rarely did
I hear it get close to
being called what it
was, this new misery

that we’ve become
trapped inside of,
a twisted torture
puzzle inside a now

old and too familiar
one. And don’t worry,
I won’t call it what it is,
either. It might help

make it okay for all
of us. And perhaps
it is alright with you,
I can’t know for certain

who among us are
traitors and who are
friends. That hoodwink
happened long ago. So

trust no one. All I’ll say
is the goods got horded;
the table shrunk and I’m
no longer welcome at it.

The time for negotiations
are over. So I’ve packed
up a little knapsack and
built myself a little raft.

Maybe, could be, there’s
less villainous neighbors
out yonder, further off
than this old man has

yet to be. Who knows?
Even if it’s true, it’s
doubtful I’ll make it
there. But I best be

getting somewhere,
hadn’t I? If for no
other reason but to
fool my poor head

into believing that
there’s getting that’s
yet to be had. And there
is. I just know there is.

mmmmmxiv

The Butcher’s Living Room

At times like these
I like to stand in the
laundromat, take pic
tures of myself. I

have clips with inset
magnets which grab
these portraits, one
by one, by the collar,

so to speak. Like
meat on hooks
they glare as if
in hopes that some

one (besides us, of
course) might be here.

mmmmmxiii

Just Over the Border    

Too close for comfort
glares into my flared
nostrils. This is no
snuggler. “A glass of

milk has never sounded
sweeter.” Awakened from
the nightmare to the four
degenerates who’ve walked

in to the diner, Fluffy’s ini
tial reaction is to spray
Windex in their eyes,
all eight of them. She

wonders why she wants
to make this dinner into
a funeral. And then she
remembers the nightmare

she’d been stuck in for
months, maybe years,
no end in sight. All
four are men, they’re

playing rough jacks.
She gazes out the
window into the
desert, disallows

a look at what’s
cooking on the
inside, but snaps
to when she hears

“Hey, Fat Ass!
Where’s supper?!”
She pretends to
open her eyes,

fakes a scoot
alongside the
counter to the
mud-colored

coffee-pot,
aims not
to ever
reach

an arm
out to
pick it
up...

mmmmmxii

Teardrops on Cornbread

There’s no need to cry,
he tells himself over and
over and over as he eats
his evening cereal, a man
tra in tempo with his clen
ching teeth against the
sogged cornbread, his
mouth otherwise awash
with buttermilk, the tall
spoon dinging the tall
glass still half full as he
stirs and he stirs, his
anxiety growing more
overbearing with each
clink. he sits alone in
his kitchen, the lights
dimmed almost to
darkness. He keeps
reaching his hand
to the chair at his
right but there’s
no one there. Oh,
what an adventure
you’re going to have!
he thinks he hears his
dead wife say as the
tears roll on, salting
the stew of buttermilk
and cornbread as he
stirs and with an
urgency takes the
tears back in by
way of the long
spoon, not missing
one single drip of
milk or bread in
the dark.

mmmmmxi

To Leave When One Is No Longer Welcome

I swear to you I don’t
think I can do it. Not
this time. This place
that’s been mine from
the beginning of time.
My time, I mean, and
over this substantial
life, year over year
I’ve been spoiled
with the luxury of
seeing things move
in a progressive way
from fine to better to
great. But that was
up to a certain date
of several years back
when suddenly two
steps back stopped
meaning three steps
forward. Add a bit of
a tragic sucker punch
and the ground disapp
earing beneath my feet
to the equation and the
excruciatingly slow tor
tured slogging toward
reaching some semb
lance of where I once
was and never quite
getting close, well,
when such a familiar
menace hovers over us
it seems this time I
might should take
things into my hands
in such a way as to
escape that menace.
Even if it means say
ing goodbye to the
only place I’ve known,
the one I’ve for so long
called home. So, I’ll
know in the morning
if I’ll need to be going.
And if I do, I’ll be on
my merry way to some
where. Wherever that is,
I mayn’t have time to
really make a new home
there, but if you’d like you
can join me and I do promise
we’ll become to ourselves
what we were to this place
and this place was to us.

mmmmmx

Quick Twisted Remix

                                                                                 gentle Uncle Billy
brought

his p a s s i on secretly
   —John Wieners (from “MRS. WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON WAS TO ILL TO GO...”)

3 daze ’til the
election, can’t
focus. manage
to watch 2 epi

sodes of Shrin
king at the top
of the day. Watch
video for bbno$

& Yung Gravy’s
“You Need Jesus”
3x (now 4). At
the end of that,

guess who calls
me. I’m crying,
(tears in his eyes!).
Stress levels at

extreme, only
lower due to
sitting on my
desk (bed) all day.

Another long stretch of time
I manage to endure
without thinking,
feeling over the

hump watching
Madame VP x 2
on SNL tonight,
holding out my

hands (and hope)
for an
easy stretch
through the extra

hour of fall
behind, w/
the right
stuff to do:

write this one
to you, enjoy
2 more season
finales (Only Murders,

Agatha), go dan
cing and just
maybe relearn
how to pray.

mmmmmix

“American Meanie, What a Weenie,” Keens Citizen Dream E.

        He grips my
     soul like a stale
     behind.
         —Robert Glück

Tragic to think that
“I’ve seen a lot of
history” would’ve
meant “Oh, the

progress was slow,
but I’ve been around
long enough to have
seen a lot of it.” Until

now, when I sit around
bemoaning everything
in no order because
chaos counts more.

“The poor kids,” is
the thought that
lingers more than
any other, way

more than the
apocalypse,
which, how
ironic that

doomsday 

has become
nostalgic
to hark back

upon. In any 

other era it is
what glows from
the silver screen

of the mind’s
eye more
than any 
other.

Can’t tout the
luxury of having
a mind that isn’t
booby-trapped

by omnipresent
anxiety because,
and, imagine the
goofy end of days

calamithy that guided
our worst nightmares
back then when
cynicism was

just about as
tawdry as
porn or post
modernism.

mmmmmviii

Dueling Surrealisms

     The sun shines like
     a spoken wheel
            —Robert Glück

         In the movie
     sad nipples die.
              —Robert Glück

It’s Halloween
or the Night
Before Mariah Carey.

It’s time to get down,
but there’s exhaustion,
ongoing election dysfunction,

and work. I haven’t escaped
city limits for nearly a decade,
but I’ll be leaving the country

soon for a vacation in the
tropics, to meet my best
friend, to get married,

the great escape.
Unless they throw me
in the slammer for

unpaid back taxes.
What’s real? Turning
on the television or

having my bag full of
tomatoes kicked by an
innocent bystander,

which turns my park
into a blood-soaked
garden. I torch her

you. She torch her
me. We split the
dif & meet at the

equator just
to beat the hell
out of the heat.

mmmmmvii

Opening Up

How someone so closed
can open up. Anxiety
tends to the darkness
of being holed up inside

a box, no sunlight in.
How do you open? Some
say with a knife. Some
with a drink. For others

it’s in dreams. Meditation,
astral projection, a twitchy,
burrowing trance, a mid
night to six in the morning

dance. A drug, recreational
addicts pump their hands
in the air, fell themselves,
be it feet to sand, sidewalk

or dancefloor, rise toward
the ceiling or a boundless
sky and eventually evap
orate. The god, a goddess,

in all that, resections each
vaporized eye, recalibrates
it, then penetrates all of
those gorgeous pupils,

a rainbow of them, we
look down at each other,
accepting our bodies re
formulating as vessels,

but not before, numb to
the day’s pain, with the
help of the penetrator,
cleansing each particle

of evaporated body, which,
by sometime between four and
six in the morning, having re
combined to slink down the

sidewalks of our most indus
trial streets feeling more alive
than the last time, sensing
within the twilit glimmers and

the yet resurrected shadow
E V E R Y T H I N G. I go
from here. I start now.
Lean in with arms open,

heading whichever direction.
Ready to embrace what lies
ahead, recognizing anew and,
in giving, taking, reverberating.

mmmmmvi

How I Turn Time into Pleasure

I’ve this I suppose you could call it
(as I will, especially if I spend too
much time on it in one stretch)
guilty pleasure of going through
old photographs of mine online,
correcting the dates, the locations,
tagging the people I know in each
photograph, and even the lives
of my forbears from as far back
as I have such photographs (and
that’s pretty far back as I’ve some
family photos that date from the mid-
1800s), essentially piecing together
a life, my past, what got me here,
a rendering somewhat outside of
myself of who I am. I say “guilty
pleasure” because I can get lost
in the task and in doing so ignore
for hours or an entire day or so
the things I surely need to be
doing, things much more
important than this habit
I have. It’s a useful habit,
though; it is quite practical,
at least for me. I write to
remember, as I always say. For
the same reason I generally take
a photograph. Because I’ve always
seemed to have trouble remembering in
whatever way or ways it is most people do.
I imagine that there are six or seven ways
people generally remember things, and
whatever my way of remembering is,
it seems unfamiliar or rare, at least
when I try to compare it with others’
methods, which becomes clear when I
attempt to discuss memory with other
people. These photos, I might add as a
reminder, and the words I’ve slammed
together over the years, I have saved
just like the photographs, they are all I
have left of the first 50 years of my physical
life. I lost everything in one of those ordinary,
almost cliche, yet tortured ways people often
do, it seems: standing at the sidelines watching
it all disappear, so to speak, in a resigned,
exhausted, helpless way. The loss of these
things, this physical stuff, is not for me a
hard loss (except when I think of the shelves
filled with familiar books that always stood
stacked like walls around me; and only then
sometimes), especially since I had the
forethought to begin at an early time
cataloging these pieces of me and
my life and the life of those around
me, including pretty much hording
every random photo I’ve ever taken,
as electronic files, going to the trouble
of scanning all of my photos from before
a certain time period, making all of
those electronic as well. The files
which I now spend maybe
too much time getting
lost within, cataloging,
tagging, dating, as a
way to piece together
a life, so that I may
better understand
who I am. And,
despite or through
it all, this life, these
pictures are there,
representing where
I’ve been, from whence
I came, act not as a reference
to a place or time I yearn to go back
to, although they do fill me with such a
warm and pleasant nostalgia, but mostly
they continually teach me about myself, each
time I sit with them it seems I learn something
uniquely new to add to the collage of my idea
of who I am. They don’t answer all
of those questions, but they give
me enough to know which way
I should aim, which direction
my legs might take me next
in order to build in the most
appropriate way upon what
I have become, who I am,
what I’ve learned about who
I am and the things most
important to me. So, here’s to
guilty pleasures, I suppose. And
perhaps curtailing my time spent
with these pieces of my past so that
I might build more and better using
what I am at present, becoming who
I might best be, who I can be, during
the finite but luxurious stretch of time
that I have been allotted.

mmmmmv

The Sequel to That Coming of Age Piece

I just watched the best,
most unlikely performance
of a broken heart. I could
spend these lines explaining

why best, why unlikely,
maybe point out that it’s a
coming of age performance,
explain why that seems to me

to be the case and therefore is.
But why waste so much time
on youth. For people like me
who are late bloomers, youth

is a metaphor all too real.
When did I wake up old? I
mean mature. All of what
led up to that point, that

transformation, an entire
lifetime almost, if in retro
spect that feels like such
a waste—and it does,

absolutely; where was
meaning, why so much
vapid nothingness, the
unlivable planet of just

getting there, of just
pining, and what a farce
if all we can do when we
finally arrive is look back

and grieve the nobody
that we once were, and
with tears in our eyes,
with such a soul-smashing

nostalgia, wake up each
new morning celebrating
the night we spent soaked
and flailing around for what

seems like an eternity,
finally to pass out and
inevitably awaken a
man. I sure fooled

you, though,
didn’t I?

mmmmmiv

I’m feeling too overwhelmed to begin to explain
why I’m feeling so overwhelmed, but here are
some thoughts on that subject anyway.

Staying inside again all weekend because, in my mind,
there’s too much to do (note to self: need to edit the
MS Word preferences again, the fuckers change back to
their template every few weeks or less lately, is it because
I’m a beta tester?) (This is going nowhere) (And on a day
when-) (I go back to uncapitalize the w at the beginning of 
that line – fuck!) This wasn’t my first intention but do you see
what I mean here – too many things to do today – getting
sidetracked and having to backtrack at every action I take?

Last night I made a long to do list of what I wanted to get
accomplished today. According to an expert in her field who 

gave a company-wide speech, imagine it a bit of a corporate

Ted Talk – many of you know what I mean – anyway, she 

says that the days when the experts thought (via research, 

of course?) that writing in a journal each day before retiring
to bed being such a great thing to do in order to get that
all-important sleep has been kicked to the curb for a new,
more predictably workable way to ease oneself into sleeping
with a bit of productivity (productivity being the key word
here, this woman speaking to a corporate crowd, and of
course the importance of sleep, which no one seems to deny
– it’s a practical lesson) thrown in, which is writing up a to 

do list just before bed. So that’s what I did. It was over four
pages long. Thus far, I’ve done nothing from the list, but
did wake up realizing all the things I didn’t put on the list
which I needed to, like cut my hair (done), read some
poetry (about to do) and watch the Michelle Obama
speech for Kamala Harris in Kalamazoo (done). There
was something else that I’ve forgotten, which I’ve
been sitting here trying to think of for a minute, which 

seems like my old standby now: stalling.

I’ll work on the list. The one primary two pages of which
is to write a long letter detailing my quibbles with regard
to this SRO I have lived in for 6 years which, all of a sudden,
I’m being told I owe even more each month (even after 

a 150% upgrade in rent thanks to the fact that I have a 

job now, and despite the fact that my paychecks are now 

being garnished by the California State Franchise Board 

or whatever they’re called) (income tax; state income 

tax). And this amount plus around two months of back 

pay! So, without even talking more about this giant 

mindfrack of an election, nor about the fact that my 

job’s about to end and I’ve only just begun sending 

off resumes for a new one and between those I have to

go down to Peru in order to maintain and hopefully finally
normalize a 5 year relationship, followed by getting the hell
out of Dodge if someone the color of a fascist orange gets
elected--and then there’s all of the rest of the bureaucracy
of the world. And here I am trying to climb my way out of
a 10-year old disaster that I seem to have found myself at
almost a precipice from which I might escape it, the
most depressing journey of my life. I’ll not sugar-coat it,
but I’ll not continue this meandering set of depressing,
throat-tightening complaints either. This has been today’s
words pelted out into the ether in this now nearly twenty
year public project about me. I can’t feel good about it,
but I do what I do – and I send it off to you. I’d recommend
not reading it unless you’re in a very particular state (knowing
it’s too late to say such things, and having no idea how to
describe such a state)….

mmmmmiii

The Painter’s Shotglass

    Dix parity
        —John Wieners

Me and my first guy,
my first guy and I,
people would think
out loud all the time

that we were brothers.
Nope. We didn’t meet
until I was 19. “Don’t
smirk,” I say with my

best Boston accent.
Maybe I was 20. On
this, I’ll get back to you.
Thing is, that’s how I

know I’ve evolved. I’m
an evolved kinda guy.
You see these lookalike
twinks holding hands

down the sidewalk and
what’s your first thought?
Narcissist, right? (“Nahhhcis…”)
And my mind’s moved on

to Pollock. And with such fore
boding. Something blood-
splattering was surely about
to happen. But nope. In the

end it was another boring
night at the beginning of
another boring month.
We had several years of

these. Clement Greenburg
came up with the name.
“Where did you get that,
what’s it called, your—

cologne?” I sputtered
an exhalation so quickly
that I nearly choked.
“Lavender Mist.” It

has a delicate, sweet
smell that is floral, herbal
and evergreen woodsy at
the same time. It has

soft, powdery, or
smokey notes as well.

mmmmmii

Two-Headed Sanity

Knowing I can get caught up
in anxiety, I don’t believe I’m
deranged or delusional, much
as I am, much as Del has always

been short for it, delusional, but
do I know deep down any real
reason for my name to elongate
into any further complexity? I’m

Del, in Spanish the combination
of preposition and article. Oh,
how I’ve angled for more depth,
more mystery, more than just

those one or two levels before
the game is over. But as I was
suggesting, I do think my head’s
placed firmly upon these shoulders.

It may be a bit wobbly with age,
but within it are the ringing alarm
bells being hyperbolic? I truly
hope so. A clean objectivity

comes and goes, I suppose,
when dealing with one’s inner
workings. But it does seem to
me that if ever there were a time

to act, if ever there were a moment
when having a contingency plan on
top of a backup plan might be a
feasible mode of existence….

I keep looking at clocks. I haven’t
worn a watch in years. Outside, 
people are banging on doors, walls,
shouting obscenities. Does it raise

my anxiety even further? It does. I’ve
saved some money. Haven’t traveled,
even outside of my fair San Francisco in,
what, over nine years? Common Sense,

keep speaking with that soothing
voice. I listen, nodding my head,
as all in as I get. Yes, yes. I think
you’re right. Let’s not make it ten.

mmmmmi

How to Break the Spell

To make sense
make sense. Pile
all your lofty verses
in Latin or whatever,

one on top of the
other, ’til you’ve
got some sort of
doddering tower.

Life is short.
Let those words
simmer for an ex
cruciating amount of

time. Then boil them.
Boil those bitches* away.


          Curses

          And remember,
          it’ll never work
          if it hinges on
          a sexist trope.

If Witches Were Words
If Words Were Witches

*wise-ass signifiers

mmmmm

Five Thousand

Of the many dueling
messages here, what
is one of them? Can
you rate a few of them

from predominant to
less so? Might you
rate a few of them
from least interesting

to moreso? Do you
have night blindness?
Are you aging well?
Would you consider

yourself a relatively
healthy human being?
Would you consider
yourself a human

being? Would you
consider this more
a case study or a
fictional account?

Does there appear
to be sunshine
lighting the path
ahead of you?

Do you find your
self more often
in the daytime
or night time?

Relative to this.
Can you relate
to it at all? Are
you being too

generous?
Define critical
thinking. Define
soul. Define

solitude. Are
we there yet?
Have I arrived?
Will you? Do

you think you
ever will. List
all primary
values. What

is today’s to
do list (read
it aloud)?
Turn in

a grocery
list. Was
it real or
imagined?

mmmmcdxcix

The Analgesic Painting on the Living Room Wall


I was staring way out into the distance

through a window that wasn’t even there.

I’m sure my eyes were glazing over, as

they say.  Yes, I remember now what

I saw through that window.  But the

horizon’s various aspects grew more

and more blurry, less distinct, the

stark colors that defined things

got softer, turned pastel. “Swas-

tika the matter, Johnny?” Of

course Esther was concerned.

She always was. It’s nice to

have people who look out

for you, upon whom you

might lean for a bit, in

times like—“What?”

Something had

snapped me out

of my funk, at

least momentarily.

“What did you say,

Esther?”

mmmmcdxcviii

A Lot to Carry

This decade of his work
was quite heavy. Was
actually only two to
three years in
duration. We
go to work with
so much on our
minds. Later, we
try to tuck ourselves
in without having glimpsed
how the other half live. Knowing
already that it’s so repulsive.

mmmmcdxcvii

To Be Frank, Art’s Not So Pat.
(IMHO) (but maybe someday I’ll talk pretty, too)

     Writing letters counts as writing.
     Writing emails doesn’t.
                       —David Sedaris (during a MasterClass ad on YouTube)

The man also says unless
you’re sitting at your desk,
[writing is] not gonna happen.

I used to wonder why everyone
but me thought him funny. I
felt problematic when attempting
to go along. Although I don’t
have an intentional fake
laugh.

Also, where I live these days,
where I’ve lived for nearly
six years now, I really
don’t have room for
a desk. Not that
I haven’t done
a lot of work
at desks. And
I continue to do so,
standing up and
walking around
as much as is
feasible.

I laugh when I laugh. I cry
when I cry. Sounds funny
to me, my insistent attempts
at being so transparent, at
being real. I’m

straight up (not straight).
I’ve tried being on the DL,
but it’s entirely too stressful.

I have two degrees in
theatre, but not
being me IRL
is just not me,
apparently.

So WTF, David Sedaris?!

I have tried hard to like you.
Not in a play-acting sort of
way, though. More from an
anthropological perspective.
Which requires research.

Do you do all of your
research sitting at your
desk? I wonder.

Quick change of subject,
but sometimes I forget about
the impending apocalypse.

This thought comes to me 

while I’m sitting on the thinker.

Which, by the way is not a desk.

And now here I am 

taking snapshots
of dawn as it 

creeps over
my city.

mmmmcdxcvi

Love Lifted Me

I’m in such a state of
flux, unable to focus,
and this literally float
ing above the surface,

over whatever floor or
sidewalk I am gliding
over, that when I look
down I almost catch a

glimpse of the top of
my head as it basic
ally aimlessly floats
over the rest of my

semi-transparent
self as the body I
look down upon
commingles with

the automobile ex
haust, the fog and
the bodies that are
less transient than

mine. Me? Where
I’m going I cannot
tell. Always some
where. But this

destinationless
place that I’m
always moving
toward yet at

which, at which,
where, I’m not,
I’m never arr
iving, to where

am I going,
Where are
you going?!
all of my

everything
asks, think
ing SCREAM,
wanting KICK

HIM! And the
ghost responds
by gliding faster,
more aimlessly.

mmmmcdxcv

Stolen Fantasies

Not that they weren’t
pilfered already. Some
one told me recently that
Craigslist gay want ads

still exist. Can we fact-
check this? Of course I
can, but I’m angling for
group participation here.

Misinformation. Disin
formation. But I’m no
formalist. I’m just a
fantasist. A person in

sistent on an entertaining
imagination. Don’t trip on
where these thoughts came
from, rock out on the scene,

the circumstance. Tune in,
turn on. That’s my scene.
Or it is mine now. It’s the
play we act together. And

for that, I apologize for
my thievery. But if I had
to do it over again, I’d
pillage it all once more.

In fact, if you’d like to
collaborate on a little
more magic, just hang
tight and I’ll be right

back with a bit more
plunder.

mmmmcdxciv

A Tortured Life Is Not a Tortured Love

One might give up one
for the other. Or darker

still, live with one en
shrouded with optimism.

For that release. At what
point would I have ever

said that you can’t have
one without the other?

Not today. For now, I
might awaken most days

afraid of what the hours
might bring me. But

settled in that peaceful
hemisphere of my soul

is an electrical connection
so strong that dust daren’t

settle around it – see but
how it floats like a moat

that guards my crook’d
and hiccoughing heart.

mmmmcdxciii

My Redundancies

If I could just but
bitch for just a moment,
maybe two, my love life,
my financial well-being
and my mortality might
have a thing or two to
say to you. But where
would I begin? And
what, pray tell, could
I say that hasn’t been
said so many times
before? So I retreat
and say that for starters,
most nights I sleep. I do.
These days, at least. This
tiny radar blip that used to
beep and beep and beep.
And when I reach as far
as I can reach I count
ten fingers (and that
while squinting). This
extroverted hermit
keeps his own company,
unless by luck of placement,
like, say, at work, a place
I try to go from day to day,
a few people pass me along
the way. Some say hello,
some even stop to shoot
the breeze for a mere
minute or two. And
those moments take
precedent over most
others save for those
in which I’m gabbing
for hours with my
most beloved, who
lives well below the
equator. So our
intimacy is of the
more 21st century
type. But most of
this you know already.
Or probably not. Either
way, for whatever reason,
I do like to share with you
that which I most treasure,
alongside that which causes
me the most distress. But
I digress. I always do.
In this one-sided
conversation that
goes from me
to you.

mmmmcdxcii

An Ageless Couple of Yucks

Sick day. Slept through
almost all of it. Then
had a brothy lunch at
a local joint. Forgot

my phone so grabbed
it to go. Sat for an hour
in bed yucking it up with
my boyfriend who was

celebrating his ancient
brother’s birthday. The
ancient part was a joke.
It’s his 26th. His elder

brother. Which, if multi
plied by 2 and added to

a nickel, the yucking bf’d
find my age. He already

knows this, of course, and
we continue yucking because
we like to laugh at things in
life that are funny.

mmmmcdxci

Blood Pressure

If we could gauge the up
tightness, not strictly the
constriction of the blood
vessels but a certain kind

of...emotion raging thru
the veins. “Is it anxiety?”
“Yes, I’m anxiety.” “How
do you do? I’m Frank.”

Frustrated by the amount
of pressure you’re under?
Try Lucy Goosey. Commer
cials. All the rage until those

pesky requisite side effects
roll. “What do you do for
a living?” Oh, so that’s
how this works . . . .