mmmmdclxii

Secret Menu

Isn’t this fancy?
I’ll try the pie.

It sounds like
just the thing

to juice up an
evening that

summed up
and averaged

out seems like
most any other.

And off this air
of mystery goes,

or so I say, my
grip still intent

upon the chef’s
until tonight’s

surprise. And
to my delight

the air returns
with something

all but certain
fresh from the

oven and with
sinister sleight

of hand the top
of that special

secret pie’s gone
gone vertical and

is smashed most
messily over my

pie-shaped face.
Sticking out my

tongue through
sourpuss lips

I find it tastes
delicious as I

scrape a bunch
of it into my

mouth. Peach
pie—oh, my!—

I’d only now
wish for a bit

of ice cream
atop it, atop

me, I find
myself

wanting.
Me, still

here, but
with a bit

of pie stuck
in my eye.

mmmmdclxi

How Next Outdo a Dullness?

How turn a week of boredom
into a comedy in three acts,
or maybe five? When such

a fete is extra tough that’s
when it’s needed most. It’s
a quarter to two in the middle

of night and I sit aslant and
sidewise at my desk (which
I submit as basic evidence

that this life’s in need of
revving up by the humble
admission that by desk I

mean bed) and in such a
contorted anti-ergonomic
crumple I am typing. But

distinctly not revving, as
I—what?—I am at basics
just describing this ennui.

When one becomes so
practiced at shaking up
the system, at disturbing

status quo, then at what
lengths does one in
actuality need to go to

find it once again dis
turbed enough to spike
but even slightly the

adrenaline? Why must
there be this constantly
assessing, reevaluating,

so as to shift approp
riately with altered
velocity in a strange

or yet unknown
direction?

mmmmdclx

Fitness

Fruit
Loops!

An ex
pletive.

Stuck in
My head.

Like the
Fire alarm,

Now, 1am,
Life gets

Interrupted.
Emergency.

Sudden,
Intermittent,

These past
Three years.

Covid. Cancer
Surgery. Knee

Sprain (the
First of these

Real life
Crises). An

As yet diagnosed
Digestion issue

With upwards to
Ten emergency

Room visits
Which ceased

Over a year
Ago. Diabetes.

No more sugared
Cereal for me,

No Fruit Loops 

Nary a carbonated,

Soda, save zero
Sugar varieties.

Routine kicks in.
Pills of a morning.

Pop in to the
Doctor’s office

Every other
Month or so,

Anxiety
Subsiding,

Blood pressure
Regulated,

Cholesterol
Down, tap

A vein for a
Vial or three

To ensure
Clean fuel,

Engine’s
Maintained,

Innards aren’t
Over-taxed.

Meanwhile,
I’m still here

Living well,
Or so it

Seems to
Me, here

At the end
Of this chapter

That still feels
Strange and

New, but I
Know these

Pages they
Turn, this

Light, it
Burns and

I’ve done
My best con

Vincing
Myself

Life’s at its
Best for me

Despite the
Menacing

Moments
And the

Lengthening
Wake that’s

Left, the
Finite

Passages
Of time.

mmmmdclix

At Odds

At this
The end

Of yet
Our

Finest
Month

In
Many

Vanquished
Years

We find
Ourselves

Beset with
Such

Bright
Hopes

& goals
A treasured

Chest of
New

Beginnings.

mmmmdclviii

Minty Pucker

Hello down there!
You’ve hollowed out

Some new caverns,
I see. I’d like to

Address its
Embouchure.

Might I?
Once enveloped

So, the lozenge
Dissolved.

As lozenges do.
And when the

Doors were
Closed,

What’s
Left

Sustains,
Remains

Undressed
A swollen

Mushy
Solid.

mmmmdclvii

Slow Time

The way he moved
From one moment
To the next point

In which his
Existence
Seemed

Reliable

mmmmdclvi

Absent

Punctuality
My friend

Over some
Lost years

Having been
Here

Each and
Every

Year
I am

Gives
Way to

I’m out
Some ill

Reality
Issue

Until I
Forget

Have
Therefore

Been
Gone

mmmmdclv

Someone’s in the Basement with Santa

     How frostily jingle the harness bells!
                              —John Ashbery

It’s Christmas in the dungeon.
The cleaning crew arrives at
the same time as all of the
kinfolk. You, always best
at gauging each guest’s
sadness, go about your
measurements, pausing
after each appraisal to
scribble a few things in
ink into your graph-
paper binder. All
the sobbing not
withstanding,
we each love
the holidays,
and i’ts a good
thing, too, as
getting along
so well submerged
as we are among the
whips and chains (but
check out our tree of
barbed wire lit
so! it’s brand
spanking new!),
a sling draped
from the ceiling
garnishes each
corner, a nest-
ful of feather
boas atop each,
just for a bit of
equanimity.

mmmmdcliv

Baby Defibrillators

It is with wide-eyed ennui
that I type this letter to you.

What’s the word for the crackle
of electricity that one might—

when ensconced within
mundanities most mundane—

conjure so that it might zip
through your system just

enough to bring you out
of the doldrums? The

coffee from yesterday
still sits untapped in

the pot. I’d offer you
an energy drink but

that’s all we have
at the moment.

mmmmdcliii

The Mute Button

     The less said the more we’ll shut up about it—
                                        —John Ashbery

Currently, we both
have headaches
from having to
incessantly
endure the
sound of my
voice.
When
I grow up,
I’d like a greater
compassion for
the human
condition,
more restraint
and a predominantly
smooth and even-
keeled delivery.

mmmmdclii

The Green Thieves

The flapping leaves, unaware
of the ground beneath them,
tingle as they sensually whip
about at each other or, in
the case of the loners,
as they fold into them
selves. Each one
is half vibrant life,
half echoing spirit,
punching the elevator
button for heaven, having
long forgotten the moist
batter of earth from
whence they derived.
Curling in ecstasy,
these fledgling
cheerleaders
lift a broadening
trunk through
the earth and
its adolescence
into an ever more
world-weary
grown-up.

mmmmdcli

we took things

this hook springs eternal
see sideways glance of
knotted neck

pop’s sourpuss on
horseradish
this book

sings this cook
slings a most notable
hook that springs eternal

mmmmdcl

Carry On, Humanity

     carrion humanity
                   —Wayne Koestenbaum

Have I inadvertently rewritten humanity
for humility? This was pages previous.
Such outrageous grievances that forge

within us each a growing ball of rubber
bands with ongoing and varying tensions.
To further grip my entirety, a rod the size

of a pencil that’s made its way to the
sharpener but once or twice, is stuck,
horizontal to the ground, having been

thrust fully into until wholly beneath the
skin just beneath the nape of my neck.
“It feels as if I’m being primed for wall

treatment.” Hung like a gory, baroque
painting, meanwhile, at the local museum.
It’s a tomb of some renown in which a

conveyor topped to maximum capacity
with fleshy gawkers of celebrity are
moved through tomb-like galleries

at only the speed that maximizes
capacity from entrance to exit,
where each body collapses. The

bodies sit until dusk, when they
are bulldozed, loaded into dump
trucks and driven to one of at

least a half a dozen garbage
heaps that rise in evenly inter
spersed locations in the

distance, half a mile past
city limits.

mmmmdcxlix

Move Me

it’s just a wish i whisper
into tonight’s pre-storm
wind. a partially earnest

prayer. for what might
i demand of the breeze,
of this bedeviled planet?

i move against it, the
wind that has kicked
up upon hearing my

useless demand, and
in that way i enter the
storm. every fixture of

the city, even me, gets
lit in azure silhouette
before each booming

clap of thunder cleans
the ears, blows the grime
from its grasp upon all

that’s good. and down
comes the rain to dilute
the poison enough to

move it, to redistribute
it until my world and i,
we’re clean, if not a bit

world-weary and wise.
thusly, mountains are
flattened and steadfast

firmaments by violent
gulfs or roiling oceans
      swallowed whole.

mmmmdcxlviii

glimpse

a small but thick white cloud
bursts into the big blue
boardroom in
the sky

i’ve looked up for respite,
an attempt to meditate
all of life’s distractions
away

that one cloud slides
across the invisible
long mahogany
table

until it vanishes,
like the rest of
the conference
room in the sky

and i assess the
success (or failure)
of my endeavor,
highly critical

until i finally
shrug it off
and think
of time

spent or
wasted
and then
i get back to

my various
unhealthy
obsessions and
transgressions

mmmmdcxlvii

Texxual Heeling (number seven)
                           (messages in bottles)

    You’re my medicine, open up and let me in
         —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


how do YOU feel about glass jars?

                                                             lol

                                                             I asked first

depends on how pretty

                                                            very glossy, cork lids

is there a nice view?

                                                            depends on what you consider nice

does oxygen make its way through the cork?

                                                            highly doubt it

                                                            but you can always make holes

before or after i’m locked inside?

mmmmdcxlvi

Texxual Heeling (number six)
                           (no cutsees)

    Come take control, just grab a hold
    Of my body and mind, soon we’ll be making it, honey
         —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


                                                                        people have no manners

yah generally i will have none of that

that is when i have been known to make a
bit of a scene

                                                                       get em grrrrl

act i scene i: “grrl get outta my face”

cuz i got 2 degrees in drama

                                                                      lol

but maybe i am turning over a new leaf

no cutsees but you can call me grrl and i
will apologize for being grumpy

subtle but solid

mmmmdcxlv

Texxual Heeling (number five)
                           (mapping the road to hell)

     There is something I can do
     I can get on the telephone and call you up, baby
         —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


this is the moment when we all
should have seen it coming

[insert video of Rod Stewart’s official music video for Passion, 1980]

please pass this along to
everyone you know in
hopes enough of them
still have any fight left

mmmmdcxliv

Texxual Heeling (number four)
                           (don’t wear a beard to the equator)

    Whenever blue teardrops are fallin’
    And my emotional stability is leaving me
        —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)

import the basics
export cherry

                                                     anxiety [seething]

                                                     it chokes me up so
                                                     i’m seein’ murder

and now the word is calm
smooth out your voice

                                                     smooth out your voice

and your breathing

                                                    your heat’s so cool
                                                    when i’m not

your heart?
in fact                                           in fact
it’s true                                         it’s neato keen

i wouldn’t lie                                  with you
to you                                           i want it

it’s like i

                                                    lost that little game
                                                    we used to play

i never lie
(except my features)

                                                   in bed

when i lied

                                                   in bed and lied and lied i

never lied

                                                   w / u
                                                   no not once not ever

i lied in bed once
for you

                                                  you don’t

don’t you

                                                  remember

mmmmdcxliii

Texxual Heeling (number three)
                       (an SOS threads the apocalypse)

    Baby, I think I’m capsizin’...
    The waves are risin’ and risin’
          —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)

earth to star jones

                                         upon some contemplation

come in star jones

                                        it has become abundantly clear that

this will likely be 

my last transmission

                                       among the moments that led up to the apocalypse
                                       there is one from which, significantly
                                       there could be no turning back

do you copy?

                                      . . . .

no idea if you copy

                                      that was the last [muffled, indecipherable]

star?

                                     day [muffled, indecipherable] we—

that is all
good luck

go with god

mmmmdcxlii

Texxual Heeling (number two)
                          (a squirrely sandwich)

  Baby, I got sick this mornin'...
  A sea was stormin' inside of me

     —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


          morurning

                                     a vegetarian hair

          and scene

mmmmdcxli

Texxual Heeling (number one)
                           (in 3 bytes)

       Ooh baby, I’m hot just like an oven
       I need some lovin’

            —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)

oh yeah baby i’m getting lucky in naples

                                                       lol
                                                       wonderful

well
for a minute i was

                                                      that was a lovely minute

it was


~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~


i dunno why but i just said son of a
picklebitch

i mean i know why

but i don’t know why


~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~


                                                       did you lose?

i’m taking it in over here in nuts about you

it’s a seasonal room

there seem to be a lot of squirrels

mmmmdcxl

Snapshot of a Conjured Scene

watching the cigarette-lit buses
exiting back bay station was a
lot of real stuff for me, but there
comes a time when things that

surely happened, when the distance,
from here in my gut right now
along the vector that goes back
in time some 30 years is so wobbly

that i know the routine: it
begins to blur out in gaps of
longer distances that i’ve
furrowed my forehead into a

permanently-terrained top
ographical map. but today
i’ve managed a quick sketch

punched into the keyboard

of a laptop on its last legs.
until all i can conjure as the
after-image repeats itself
are the pacific coast of your

ice cream eyes, and me,
hunkered down over on
the other side of some
sort of table, which i think

is made of ice, in the
frozen back bay breeze
of my imaginostalgia-nation,
a scene that now has happened

but never did (yet weren’t there
consequences that still resonate, 

emanate from it?). after banging 

the event into reality i’ve clicked

the filter faded dreams. so that

whatever the case, this is all
i now have left of it. and
i offer it to you, today’s

odd screening, more a still life, 

this latest piece projected
onto the silverfish-colored
celluloid that is the back of 

my eyelids, for a brief moment,
that has since faded, like
always, and would be as lost

as the dreams that throb with

clarity upon awakening that i 

fail to record immediately 
into the small, leather-bound
diary that sits bedside like a

lover or an old friend –
so that within fifteen
minutes to perhaps an
hour the dream vanishes

wiped from memory’s existence. 

but this one is no figment now.

because i’ve spent a few 

minutes banging it into

history. i present it now
to you, my muse of the 

moment. i mean i see
you, i hear you. we exist

within this snapshot

that might live forever,

for always.  and yet,

that our paths never 

once crossed in boston
is the one bit of reality 

upon which I shall 

remain certain.

mmmmdcxxxix

Out of Order

The narrative floated
back and forth in time.
Sometimes things got
so mixed up that sep

arate events would
get mixed together
as if they had literally
happened together.

But did they? I
got to where I
couldn’t ascertain.
We liked to discuss

how this aspect of
the biopic emphasized
those layers of
complexity, and that

they give the audience
a sense of never
quite being aware
of exactly where

they are and what
is taking place.
Which pieces of this
somewhat off-kilter

puzzle transpired
in physical reality
and which were
merely small

conversations
or reactions

that took place
wholly within

the imagination
of the biographical
subject, what might
have simply been

hallucinatory,

or could the story,
in being depicted
utilizing a combination

of real and “unreal”
pieces, simply be an
overarching metaphor
or juxtaposition through

through which the audience
might in some real way
experience the years
of dementia through which

most of the central character’s
life so frantically, so tragically spun.

mmmmdcxxxviii

You Put a Spell on Me

there was a lady,
or at least i believe
that she was. i cannot
say exactly, but whoever

it was, well, she’d,
they’d peer through
this broken set of
vertical blinds—

and this would be
all the night long
and through the day
and all the way back

to dusk again—and
this, although i never
once could see their
lips, with such a hunger

and a determination—
i could see this with
ease staring into the
deep pools of their eyes,

eyes that wore this
mystery human’s (i
am pretty sure it
was a human)

veritable heart upon
its sleeve, which makes
no sense but perhaps
you can feel from this

peculiar illogic a vicinity
of nearby what i might
mean. i didn’t think
of that person veering

through those broken
blinds down at me for
those two weeks as
witch or even maleficent

in any way, but it is clear
that magic, in some way,
was being concocted and
swam like an electric breeze

in and around me during
each of those fourteen
glorious days. i’d just
finished some very

important travels and,
well, it was the first among
many long-held plans that
had finally come to fruition,

and that matronly person
stared down upon me and
for two solid weeks acted
simply as a conduit with

which to provide me
with this life, a kind of
motivation i’d not been
able to muster for decades.

and ever since then, a
small period of time
that has now settled
itself within me as a

distant, dizzy and glorious
transition, as if the person—
a photograph over one
month in an illustrated

calendar, a calendar in
which each new month
showcased a photograph
of graffiti, that was it, there

was no real person, no
witch, no magician,
there was simply a
depiction of so-called

artistic vandalism
looking over me—
but i felt almost
an entire life,

having been drained
to that life’s near-
extinction, was
being poured

carefully back
into me, into
what i’m sure
is my soul, or

whatever
exists within
me that most
resembles my

idea of one,
so that i became
alive again, really.
or i write these

words with more
than just a fervor
for hope that it
might truly happen,

just as i tell you that
it has in order to
make it so. alone i sit,
(that benevolent character

long gone), conjuring,
ordering it to be so.  

mmmmdcxxxvii

suspension / disbelief

i suppose i see works of
cinema, stage and television
much more often, in aggregate
as a critic, not as what seems
to me the more typical
audience member. i’ve no
problem with this, much as
i understand the necessity
of relating somehow to the
characters and story and
of believing in the whole
thing or giving yourself
into the world of the
work of art, whatever
it is. this that i am
relaying to you mostly
is just pretending to be
a poem, although a poem
i write is one that i say
is a poem, that seems the
only determining factor
for me, which is pretty
convenient and debatably
lazy. anyway, this, again,
is just an observation, or
a set of them, which i
appreciate this afternoon
for what i feel is its
lack of poetry, a
bunch of words cast
in a very low budget
production in a piece
that, with such flourishes
as enjambment (as
costume) and a virtual
virtual page (the set)
to have it be pretending
or acting as if a poem.
i like to think about the
difference between
assimilated facts like
this pretending to be
a poem versus something
i write believing in the poem
of it all as i write it, but there
is no real difference in the ways
i describe given that in my mind
simply to dub something one writes
a poem is to make it one. these
are simply facts for me, the way
in which i live them, and with
simplicity and ease placed
upon the page, thrown
into it as i type the
words, read through,
reread, make all of
whatever flourishes i
do to add the pretense
of poetry. and with
regard to my participation
in these art forms as
critic and/or audience
member (this is my way
to differentiate for you as
i do not often think of
myself while watching
movies or television
or dramatic productions
as floating, as i obviously
do, between most often a
critic, wondering as i watch
how it has been made, how
that creation either turns
me on or off and why, thinking
about the artistry and effort
of many individuals and the
vastly different role each had
in creation of what i'm watching.
but i am aware that i do this,
that i'm most often evaluating
in a bit of a traditionally critical
way (not as audience member
but with curiosity regarding
each part of the collaboration,
actively assessing each and
all as the piece unfolds), but
also sometimes getting just
caught in its world, that
original appeal of immersing
myself in the other worlds.
utilizing each piece as if it
were not really a means of
escape as much as a way
to get an education about
an art form or art itself or
the history of humankind.
i have become aware of these
simulatenous and back and
forth ways of experiencing.
it has become integral to
my life, these two ways of
experiencing the art forms.
and this is a way of being
that i am happy with, that
does me well, in my opinion,
and i cannot imagine dispensing
with one or the other way of
experiencing such things.
but i do clearly spend
most of my time,
i believe, outside
of the story as it is in
progressing, hovering
over it so as to obsess
and assess and relish
each and every part
made by each and
every individual, seen
and unseen, that
altogether make
a work of art.
as they are lived.
but what i can say
is i’m thrilled to be
on either side, so
i float around as critic
and audience participant,
sometimes simultaneously,
be more often probably focusing
more on one or the other, that is,
either concentrating wholly on the
world itself and feeling within that world
or as a critic noting each part that has
gone into it, observing and making
assessments, placing scores, and
making my little arguments
to justify whatever i think i know
or see based on these observations.
i think should leave it at that, these
words i’ve written about how i am
when i watch cinema, television or
stage production, so as to leave this
dudded up actor of a pretend poem
more statement and less opinion.
less a poem then a taking up of
the airwaves or of your time
to tell you something of me
without leaning on bias
and such. so there.

mmmmdcxxxvi

trading in this reality microscope
for a magnifying glass

instead of spending
day after day and
night after night
trying to come to

the most robust
conclusions about
what’s going on,
regarding what’s

real and what’s
not. problem is
the more i learn

about the truth,

the more assured i 
am of wanting nothing 

more than to burn the
entirety of it down.

mmmmdcxxxv

Are pervs prudes?

sounds like a ridiculous
question, but at its surface,
might we agree that,
statistically, as a base,

a scientific-ish formula
upon which we might
most assuredly find a
solid consensus, exists,

might be gleaned in order
to put such a statement to
test? does it not follow that,
given our numbers, at least

a subset of one exists within
the other? an equation

built to generate

accurate numbers

would, of course, depend 

significantly upon how we
define the words perv

and prude. and i’m no

scientist (despite my
credentials), but, personally,
i figure the statement holds 

true for a vast majority.  but

that’s just one guy’s opinion.

i’m interested in learning
what you think: do we
even need science?

mmmmdcxxxiv

brightest lotuses

the president

of the stars and

stripes is in thailand

with mike white and

parker posey. i wake up

with the meaning of dreams.

‘tim, is something going on?’

you never know who’ll show

on your favorite anything.

there’s an american ex

press advertisement

until the screen

that holds the

bottom of my

bed up (the

foot bottom)

hisses like it’s

been snake-

bitten, then,

to my eyes’

surprise

(i’ve peeled

’em) goes

black. the

rest in me

scoots off

before the

beans grind—

grounded

like a rocket.

i’ll never even

be another

whodunnit.

tears rollin’

like credits,

down, down.

a heart goes

boom until

abloom.

is it mine?

this murder

of a has-been.

mmmmdcxxxiii

da feet of da duck

exhaustion is brutal
this summer ain’t green
i’m tired like my head axe
times daddy’s but mean

mmmmdcxxxii

Two Laughing Hyenas

I often find
myself trying
to be funny.

What I’m
saying—what
I just said—

is that I’m
on occasion,
or on quite 

the occasion,
in fact....
Wait,

did I just
alter that?
Facts, by

the way,
are in
alterable.

But are
they?
Shoot,

all I was
wanting to
tell you was,

and most
likely too
often, I

find myself
attempting
to be funny.

And then,
when I think
about it, that

so-called
funny time,
in retrospect,

it wasn’t (that?)
funny at all.
How far away,

I wonder,
is ‘so-called
funny’ from

hilarious?