mmmmmccxxxix

Solitary Confinement

It is 2:30 in San Francisco on a Tuesday
morning three days after Halloween and
I have just watched the third episode of
The Diplomat (season four).  There are
flies on the windscreen.  Depeche Mode
is chanting the soundtrack to the night;
death is, indeed, everywhere.  A fictional
diplomat passes alongside a famous
spaceship captain. The latter happens to

be one I might call a hero.  I relay to my 

world that I am not ready. But how could I 

be less prepared for the passing of fictional 

folks and the people who portray them, 

given that I have been without my mother 

now for ten weeks. The reason I am aware
of how long it’s been since she left this
world is because she never disappears
from the queue on the application I use
for making most of the calls on my
phone.  I don’t have enough of that (or
any other) kind of interaction to see her
disappear from the viewable list that
is called up every time I send a text
message or make a call.  The pact I’ve
made with myself has me moving ever
so gently past that subject to keep my
spirits high, and it seems to be working,
for the most part.  I’ve been reading the
work of my favorite dead poet, which also
helps.  Otherwise, I would not recommend
such gliding about upon surfaces for the
limbo in which it has me now living, but
those of us who practice efficiency, who
are above all practical, begin by weighing
pros and cons and whatever route gives
the biggest pile of positivity becomes our
road less traveled, I suppose.  Honestly,
I think this practice is beginning to dumb
me down, to make me lazy.  But, with an
excessive amount of grunts and sighs and
eye-rolling I’ve managed to tick several
important items off of my list of more

urgent tasks today, so despite being
surrounded by death’s darkness I am
in pretty good spirits, I’d say.  But it is
past three in the morning and I’m not
so daft that I’m unaware of a fairly
pressing need for rest, for sleep.
So I’ll stopper my thoughts as best
I can for the time being. 

Warmly (alone, and yet among the living),

mmmmmccxxxviii

Carefree

It was a serious, top-heavy day.  

I had several tasks I had wanted

to finish.  But I just could not bring

myself to focus on eiteher of them.

While unfocused, I noticed that
my friend of many years, who
had dropped by the night before
to keep me entertained, apparently

had written something on my wall,
next to the northernmost window
that looks out upon the alley next 

to my apartment building.  It appeared

to be written using a black marker.  I 

stared at the writing for a long time from 

where I was perched on the other side 

of the room, unable to make out any

of the words, or even any letters.  Also
thanks to my creative friend, there was an 

anaconda crawling over the banker’s lamp 

that I had found the year previous, and 

had painted and then placed upon my desk, 

which was situated below the window
that now had, mid-way down its frame,
the markings in black that I was

trying to decipher from too far away.  

Another friend calls me.  He had

recently been involved in an
accident whil riding his electric 

bicicyle down Nob Hill one recent evening

after work.  He had fallen asleep while driving 

his bike home.  At some point later, he woke 

in a hospital and was told that he had

broken his clavicle, had fractured a couple

of his ribs and might have a concussion.  He
calls to update me on a doctor visit, mentions 

wanting pizza.  I throw a bag of fruit in a bag, 

run to the corner store, purchase a frozen 

pizza for him and a few snacks for myself,
then drop by his apartment to give him

the fruit and the pizza.  Back home, I 
continue to refuse to walk over to the window 

to read whatever it is that my friend had

scribbled next to it in black marker.  I

think of the ceramic hearts and butterflies
that this friend had glued next to the light

switch in my bathroom a short time after I 

had moved into this place.  I sit watching 

podcasts and news broadcasts about the 

upcoming election (which is tomorrow), in 

various states of anxiety and hope.  Among the 

things I had planned on completing was voting, 

and my ballot lies on the bed beside me. I continue 

to read poetry between between the clips of election 

coverage.  The room gets a bit chilly so I pull a 

blanket from in front of me to wrap around and 

cover my legs. This inability to focus has been a 

pretty consistent thing with me over the past few
months.  I let that thought ring and then echo
a bit in my head.  The room is otherwise silent

but for a lone fan that sits next to the other 
window in my room, which also looks out upon 

the alley next to my apartment building. I manage 

to somehow rid myself of most of the day’s anxiety, 

so that I become lighthearted and calm as the day
approaches its end. I do not know how I was able
to transition from the stressful day into such 

peace, but don’t spend time trying to understand 

it.  My focus remains on the surface of things,
and keeps darting about wildly, and I simply
allow my mind to coast with ease from
one subject, whatever it might be, to another.

mmmmmccxxxvii

A Brief Buzz

it’s a meaningless
halloween and i’m
tripping backwards
through time to land

a tipsy figure upon a

diorama, a tiny version 

of something that’s a bit
fuzzy but did certainly

occur.  it’s me and a
bunch of strangers
now.  i wind my
pointer finger up

to catapult from my
thumb and flick each
character that is so
carefully situated

within the tiny set.
flick!  flick!  flick!
there are such better
things i could be doing

with my time.  i’m no
longer a masked crea
ture roaming the dark
streets, enjoying the

holiday frivolity, or
throwing a party,
i’d flick represen
ations of each of the

partygoers, should i
be presented with a
miniature version of
that spectacle.  alone,

reading poems from
a dated collection, 

trying creatively
to be thankful, to

paint a small portrait
with a few basic strokes
of a moment in which
i was present, but there’s

no warmth in that, no rush
of blood or adrenalin that
comes from this perspective.
and were i to go back, if i

could somehow look through
the years to the dim silhouette
rocking back and forth in an
attempt to meld the present

with the future (as i do the
present with some bereft
past), well, i would never
have made it to this place,

to these thoughts, this
moment.  i would have

flicked all the superfluous 

characters to points outside

the frame of the painting
(new frames are construct

ed to further imprison) and

run like mad in the opposite

direction.  with time, hap

piness vanishes.  to know 

when it is time to make a 

run for it.  or otherwise

wait another lifetime 

in solitude planning 

your great escape.

mmmmmccxxxvi

Confessions Spoken Into A Slight Breeze

“What about his deepest, darkest secrets,”
someone thought while the performer was
in the middle of his most turbulent scene.

I was having a conversation with my best
friend the way we always have conversa
tions, which means we were texting Line

or Instagram, which I was doing on my new

iPHone.  Somehow we got into a really heated 

argument.  It happens.  He was upset because he 

didn’t think I gave him any time to speak, and 

that I kept interrupting him. This happens.  So 

he said a few mean things, and he can say 

really mean things, I can never get used to 

hearing my best friend say really mean things 

to me.  So then I got upset, and he excused 

himself, because like anybody with a bit of

common sense, he knew when he needed
to take a break and to calm the fuck down.

I, on the other hand, sent within the length
of an hour, enough text to fill a novel of
average size – or at least a short story, one

of the choices we had for book reports in
eleventh grade that when eyeballing  a 
selection seemed the slimmest in volume.

This was not me, actually.  When book
report season arrived, I’d always pick one
like Shogun or Stephen King’s The Stand.

If it wasn’t at least a thousand pages, I
figured it would not be worth my time.  No,
that wasn’t it.  But I welcomed the opportunity

to spend enough time with a book that I really
felt like I was in there, had been there.  Which didn’t
work, really, considering I don’t have that kind of

memory.  I require photographic reminders, if not
full-fledged journal entries, in order to call up the
capacity to fully recollect a scene.  When I finally

began traveling abroad, to all of the wonderfully
foreign cities that I’d grown up knowing I had to
visit, I’d always make a point of spending a solid

two weeks, if not more, in the specific city.  My
first such trip was to France, where I spent
two weeks in Paris.  During that time I turned 

forty.  I didn’t even go to Versailles.  I just wanted
to spend as much time living in that city that I
came out feeling like I had once been a Parisian.

I have never once met my best friend in person.
We’ve known each other for over a decade now,
which has been for both of us a series of pretty

wild ups and downs.  Also, I’ve had a boyfriend 

for nearly seven years.  During that seven years
we’ve spent exactly two weeks in the same

city, his city.  Next week, I’ll be turning in the
paperwork so that he can come here, we’ll get
married, and will finally be living in the same

hemisphere.  I was just informed that the 

estimated time from turning in the application 

to his arrival, now that I have the money to turn 

it in, has doubled to two years within the last year, 

which was when the paperwork was completed.
How can I possibly turn sixty next year?  I

do certainly hope to get that opportunity.  I’ve 

seen since my mid-twenties something like
eight therapists with whom I met with regularly

for any extended duration. My new one seems

intent to do something all of the rest never
hinted at doing.  She wants to diagnose me

with something.  I don’t really have many
secrets.  There is a ton of things about me
that no one has ever heard.  Because for

reasons that I’ve tried to explain elsewhere,
I don’t interact much with others these days,
certainly not folks with whom I’ve had a lot
.
of previous interaction.  That is something I 

remain very committed to changing.  But

I believe that reaching an important goal 

should not be such a struggle, especially 

when the odds of reaching that goal 

keep decreasing.

mmmmmccxxxv

snowball

in hell
we like the
cold snaps

it’s not like
toledo or
boston

and
truth 

be told

it’s not
really
even

what
might be
called a

respite—
it is hell
after all

but some
times with
a little bit

of focus
especially if
it’s a part

icularly long
and gnarly
day (and all

days are
as equally
long as they

are equally
gnarly 
and

hellishly 

hot) one can 

almost—

i mean this
takes a LOT
of energy

more than a
citizen of
hell might

muster
truth
be told—

if one
were to
focus

hard
enough
to tilt the

scale just
a bit in one
way or the

other. . . .
well. . . .
one

would not
be in hell
would they?

the blisters
from the
burning

baseballs
dry 

solidly

into
stone hard
callouses

mmmmmccxxxiv

Thick Dark Circles Under My Eyes

     I took a cab then walked then caught a bus and now I’m on a train.
                                                                   —Micah Ballard

I’m losing my touch.  I’m no longer in touch
with my fair city.  I am up until 2am playing
games by myself, which is the opposite of
engagement, my religion.  I’m engaged, but

the opposite of engaging.  Taped to my door
when I return from my doctor’s appointment
is a notice that lets me know that my apart
ment building is being painted beginning this

week and it goes on to demand that I shut my
windows between the hours of 8am and 5pm
on weekdays until the painting is completed.
I missed my food pantry today because the

appointment with my doctor took much longer
than expected.  By the time I left the doctor’s
office to head back home I was ravenous.  The
car that had been arranged to take me home

canceled so another car had to be called to
take its place.  But within five minutes the
second car had arrived and I hopped in to head
home through the lunch hour traffic, growing

more and more sullen thanks to my hunger.

Once home, I ate in too much of a rush and,
feeling exhausted, laid down and slept until
after 7pm, when I received a call from my

boyfriend.  We carried on with intermittent
laughter for exactly fifty-nine minutes, said
good night to each other, and I then played
video games for another three hours, then

wrote a few lines of what I call poetry.  Be
tween games I catch a few political podcasts,
and all the while keep promising myself that
I’ll watch The Invite before going back to sleep.

mmmmmccxxxiii

an overly complicated oversimplification

i could offer that i am nothing if not sincere.
and i could then stop right there.  and the
broad spectrum of interpretation that even a
rather compact set of individuals might each
individually deduce from that fairly straight
forward encapsulation of who i say that i am—
and i am me, and that is the first thing that
came to my mind as i thought of how i might
describe myself in such a way that i might give
the best and most complete picture, should you
have no idea of me, within just one line of text—

well, it just goes to show how language and com

munication and words and all that we might use

in an attempt to relay with clarity to others, whether

it is our most feeble or even the most elaborate

or perhaps the most concise line we come up with

in an attempt to unveil something we believe to be

a significant aspect of who we are, if that is what we 

wish to do, if that is our assignment, to do so as if 

our life were dependent upon doing so.  but we are 

not automatons.  relaying just this one line might

reveal such varied and broad interpretations from

any set of individuals to whom such a brief descrip

tion of self relaeyd that entire novels might then be 

concocted from these various interpretations; our

character might have such a centrifugal personality

that no reader would be able to find anything to

cling to that might identify them, and they might

in no way resemble the person, yourself, about 

whom you had in earnest tried to describe but

one important trait; and this might even give

give one pause about why it might even be 

important, human character, much less that

of our own, causing us to question any of the

core values and tenets with which we have 

come to identify as ourself, the key tenets

we embrace as ours.  making matters even

more difficult is the fact that this exercise

assumes we know ourself enough to attempt

such an exercise, and it does not even take

into consideration how much bigger that

canvas becomes if we do not begin with a 

common language.  there are so many ways 

to interpret a line of words strung upon a page 

that were meant to give you, directly from me,

something that is significant about who i am.  if

i were to spend as much time as i could trying

with words i come up with to give you the essence

as best as i can of that characteristic, it might 

then come back as iterated by you so far away 

from what i had intended that i might get bogged

down in the perplexity, i might literally exhaust
myself in an attempt to get just one other person
to see one thing that, to me, is, and for as far back
as i can recall, a characteristic of my own self that
i cling to as if it is authoritative, as if it were severe
ly pertinent, overarching and primary among my
many characteristics.  and, what might make me truly
throw my hands up in resignation over what seems at
first to be a simple exercise is how closely who i think i
am resembles in utter reality the person who every day
is me, who acts as me, who walks through this life as
no one else but me.  and, truth be told, the older i get, 

the less i can with confidence assume that i really know
who i am.  so to give you a description of something that

is certain and basic about myself is an infinitely complex 

and mysterious and beautiful and exhausting and 

impossible task.  but if i am confident of one thing alone,

it is that this task might be the most important thing we

can and should continue to attempt to do.  and when a

person returns that favor by attempting to reveal any

thing that is theirs, accept such a gift with the respect

of listening as wholly as you might.  and never stop

trying to learn all you can about the hearts of others

and relaying anything so that one might catch even 

a reasonable tiny true glimpse of any part of you.

mmmmmccxxxii

Adjusting Focus

not being able to see with enough
clarity to pick up a book upon
waking up of a morning, having
difficulty seeing anything at any

time, when this has not been your 

overall experience thus far with your
eyes, with general perception, is an 

event that creates new ways of being.

these happen, can multiply in an expo

nential pattern with age, will necessitate 

fresh ways of looking, new angles of
approach aimed at outlook.  having

such altered states of perspective work

on one’s outlook can broadly increase

anxiety and how we feel about our
future, whether or not we have one;

our debt might increase or decrease as

a result, and should we have a list of 

things in life we have come to regret, if 

such a list exists, it might expand or

contract.  but let me for just a moment 

address those of you who like to insist

you’ve no regrets at all in life, wherever 

you might be on that journey, as there

seems to be a bit of a trendy back
lash against us heathens who go
about our days and nights con
vincing ourselves that wrong

turns are non-existent, at least
when they transpire in the past.
forget these haters and their
guilt-inducing rhetoric.  live your

life as you see fit.  and, above all,
don’t belay the sense of urgency
that this sudden inability to make out

words on a page, something you have

capably and easily done heretofore,

has you feeling.  but do not dawdle, 

either.  take the time to build a strategic 

and well-mapped solution, as well as at 

least a couple of back-up plans, just in 

case the first one wields less than
satisfying results.  you will surely
have an entirely revamped sense

of your person, complete with all
of your life’s goals and directions,
mapped into a profoundly more
enlightened format with clear

instructions for how to get to
each step along the way.  take 
this as a sincere welcome to a 

wiser and more mature era.

mmmmmccxxxi

I Feel Like I’m Just “Need to Know”

i’ve had one eye on this cubbyhole here
without moving the target of that single-eyed
focus for about eighteen hours.  so i do most
sincerely apologize for your frazzled wreck of
a man over there.  i have seen so much in this
brief yet explosive life, but i can say without
a tiny hint of deception that i have never seen
any living human work so hard to get but such
a slim duration of that sharp focus that comes
in single pop staccato from the groove that is
so permanently sewn into the heart of the
most transitory spasms of your unwavering
and yet dangerously endearing attention.

mmmmmccxxx

is

there something (a book, a television show,
anything) called the hoes of floeville?  or

is that just a nothing bun that i made up in my 

head, a mere daydream that i simply concocted

within my imagination, a figment that i somehow
managed to permanently transfer into reality?

mmmmmccxxix

Assessment of an Ass Gone Backwards

my assessment: i am too honest,
straightforward, blunt...redundant,

but not enough to get a point across
with clarity (a cross; put a pin in the

genetics of it) (each year the research
seems to bring us closer to the roots and

branches of the family tree; i only sug
gested the pin as a—would it be a joke?

—because it is a too-used phrase i’ve
grown to acknowledge with an eye-roll,

but has its overuse perhaps peaked by
now?...the things that become more dif

ficult to stay on top of [the things to
the top of which it gets harder to climb]

[the things to top upon which i attempt,
and with diminishing gusto, to climb] or

rhyme.  this blusterous noise of nothing,
this noisy nothingness, this bombastic

barrage of blanks that boom as if mere
duds were all that filled the barrel of a

pistol that has its lever pulled repeatedly
by a blistered digit belonging to some

trigger-happy creep, that’s what this
godforsaken week has been.  all noise,

mere distraction and bleeding eardrums.
this is what happens the further away from

the structure of steady employment or the
regimen of appointments or lessons, of

sitting bored in classrooms from nearly dusk
until the embers of the winter sun have faded

into a moody hue of indigo.  you wish the rest
of light away, crave the impossibility of obsidian,

but the slowly dying city never dies enough, and
so, with smoldered haze of light that won’t allow

these eyes to distinguish but the basics of the
complicated map that once unfolded becomes

impossible to finesse back into a semblance of its
original state, you stumble down the path toward

the ocean, or so you think, weaving in and out of
brazen, brash and awkward through poetic frivolity

and frugality, never finding the tide nor even a
a swath of cooling sand, where all of the paths

that cross this city with which you’ve become so
intimate, and without failure, end.  this is a con

fusion which drags the light of day, the clearest
way from the muck that you’ve been stuck in

toward the least resistant trail with the slightest
slope that will lead you back to clarity, back to

distinguishable signage and perhaps a crew in
recognizable uniforms that might help you through.

which is all to say it has been a week.  with setbacks
that have turned all clocks back to somewhere we

once and not so long ago called past.  with almost
no commitments nor resistance you’d think we would

be getting somewhere, and fast.  but, exasperatingly,
here is where we find ourselves.  here’s to hoping that

our next stop will be somewhere over there.  and

please, we pray, not at some familiar point that

lies between here and where we started, when

ever it was that we did.  all that time ago.

mmmmmccxxviii

Richly Espousing

for a few moments
we each got lost in
our own versions of
etymology.  when lydia

walked into the room,
the person who appeared
to be the leader was addressing
the classy crew, “okay, it’s time

to do a bit of time travel.”  lydia
quietly assessed how calm the
charge, tried to mirror that tranq
uility with what she had come to

believe was her superpower.  she
seated herself with a slow-motion
grace that, what emanated from the beauty 

of such deliberate movement numbed the

perimeters of consciousness of the inhabitants 

of that comfortable space, taking the
edge off of the cumulative
verifiable presence within the

room.  her presence had
not only been accepted,
but it had done so by those present 

with such mutual acceptance

and ease that all were
working almost instantly
as one.  and with such
an openness.  the

cooperation was so
ideal that the aforementioned
”leader” took an extra long breath,
expanding coolly out of what had been

a necessary moment, releasing her charge
until an equanimity took hold, until neither
of the individuals, not one soul in that space,
could with any of the laboratory’s tools (which were

the best available, and the best were truly stellar) measure

even a micron of inferiority or superiority.  this had
always been the goal. and we each remained equally 

insistent upon maintaining it, unwavering but for 

such moments of transition that had just been

experienced; entrances, occasional
exits, rare dispersals that long ago and for time
immemorial had so carefully and gently been built into their lives,

its structure, so that their civilization could
now and for all times, an expanding stasis,
as a whole, as one, progress; no individual,
no citizen, ever relying or leaning upon this perfection,

this expansion, any more than another, no one
stumbling or losing a bit of footing during such
transitions, relying any more or less upon a thing.  this
peaceful and enlightened whole, as one, progressing, no individual....

mmmmmccxxvii

Happening Right Now

“are you upset about my premonition,”
i ask him, “about you and your quinoa
this morning?”  imaginary beginnings.

trying to learn how not to walk straight,
i always seem to walk a line (it’s alright if this
has you thinking of johnny cash).

when gliding through semi-consciousness,
barely touching upon any context, except that
we’re dancing, me and my machine.  and

we’ve all the context we need (the
only memorable thing thus far, now that
you are reminded by a change in volume

that you had hit play on a recent tiny desk concert
that now replays on the big television screen at
the foot of the bed, to your right, just over

the still life of fruit and vegetables) noticing as you do
that the lead rap-mama just used the word texts in
some no doubt salacious sense but has pronounced it,

distinctly, texas.  this is after she has sung
three or four boring numbers at the top of the
set.  but now she turns the volume up as we all know

she can, stretching those bronx vowels
at a clip that’s about twice as fast as a horse’s
trot and, waving her arms around and about in

an illogical but fluid fashion, she shifts gears,
booms: CHANGE THE VIBES!    CHANGE
THE VIBES!    CHANGE THE VIBES!

whatever stain from being so down
and out for the past few years, no
matter how impossible it is to

scrub away the ink of that squalor (life in the
institution of destitution) .... i grew up
with folks who worked like mad just to

ensure us kids got to coast up through
adolescence and beyond unaware of any
hardcore financial obstacles – oh, we each

got our mandatory turns helping clip coupons, it’s
not like frugality wasn’t preached at us from
numerous angles and with regularity, but

we had it easy peasy.  whatever my father’s
lesser dreams or otherwise perverted
desires (of which there seemed a

seemingly endless supply), his overarching
motivation of giving us each a better life
than he had when our age was the loudest,

the most consistent.  just back from my
weekly food pantry clack-tapping these
lines onto the laptop perched upon

my circular pillow, my wrists bouncing around
on either side of touchpad, rocking it back and
forth atop my bed, next to a pile of cantaloupe,

bok choi, onions, tiny white potatoes, zucchini,
green oranges, squash, lemons, a package of
spaghetti and two big bags of green lentils.

oh, when your lower back is hurting and your
body can’t help but begin to dance like a marionette
that mimics the oversized cellphone or the miniature

word processor that dances before you, at your whim,
and you’re sated (but slightly dry-mouthed) by the
multi-colored array that’s wrapped like a cornucopia

half-in, half-out of your fuzzy brown comforter that you
promise yourself will go into the wash this evening, when
you’ll clean, chop and then sauté a select and generous 

assortment in the frying pan you’ve been wanting for years 

but have only just this week been able to purchase.....and 

you’re not much of a chef but you just know you have

so much desire and you’ve become convinced that you have
an intense potential for talent—so much so (and this
happens often enough) that you can barely contain yourself.

mmmmmccxxvi

death by earthquake

everyone thought the
screenname was a mysterious-
enough avatar: everyboyshot.

arthur was sure that a gun was in
volved, but remembered “them” as any

boy; only one manchild down.  sebastian 

knew better, grasped the inclusiveness, that this 

was every single male (there was some deliberation 

over the actual sex of each character, and whether 

the paradoxical moniker had any del 
iberate inward sexism or, just as possible, any 

outward diminution, was perhaps a derogatory 

joke that was dedicated to the female of the species). 

it’s so true!  thought greg, we all want the endless
choices, mutual attraction being such

a modern given.  just amongst us boys,
thought trev, almost sufficiently
revved.

mmmmmccxxv

heart to heart
(another sonnet with a big blue wave)

         I was careful to use the right words
                                  —Micah Ballard

watched it stroke the midnight
sometimes     i’m a person who’d
much rather relay all the feels
   there’s so much more     and at such
a faster pace           is life really happ

ening again?      and i must repeat
that it is not that i am holding
back what i hold       deciding not to
reveal          i have my reasons    death is not
one of them sounds like a diversion

the jackhammer has the sidewalk pur
ring tonight        a loss of self forces a hand    sense
of self?       sincerest self       boards boost bodies
over behemoth wave at one and some

mmmmmccxxiv

amber granite

everyone knew the moment
the mosquito was infected, the
thanksgiving turkey notwithstanding.

the broadcast wasn’t mutually beneficial.
and the moment the malarky hit the air
waves was met with laughter at first, then

was sufficiently divisive, after which some folks
calmed down to about a three and a half.  i like
how this exercise is working

the crotch area into a seismic tizzy.  youth
remembered as more haze-soaked than dizzy
(vertigo, o vertigo; sung to the tune of galveston)

mmmmmccxxiii

a show of hands

if folks don’t mind terribly.
we just don’t know where
one is coming from (though
we have a pretty good idea).

such things lower the odds of
common misperception.  keep
murderers from intervening.
give us all a sense of inequity,

with and without any more
intense focus given to probes,
to problems.  the likelihood that
someone (not just the culprit, of

course) has already narrowed this
down sufficiently continues
to get higher and higher.

mmmmmccxxii

[Rimshot]

                  [Kumquat]

This would be the text of an

assuredly funny house made

of words I don’t know.   It being

Disclosure Day.   I saw a couple

of cockroaches.  First time in

ages (several weeks).  Seems like 

a day of pretty significance, actually,

a pretty significant morning, with

an afternoon and an evening 

clamoring after.  “What are you 

doing in my kitchen?”  “Haven’t 

had a kitchen in years.”  May 

our lucky lotto combo well be 

remembered (though I find 

gambling worse than a waste 

of time):  6, 7, 5, 5, 4, 2.  Remind 

(an imperative verb acting as a

transitive action verb when

used as a command, mind

your memory, disburse en

couragement, remine, rem

and) the lover from the him,

he’s spherical other that 

he’s got great taste in divas, 

that he’s practically nourished 

some of them into pop existence

all by himself,  so he should by 

all means never give up on one

so easily (and with such finality!).

My openest-mouthed prayers of

perplexed gratitude with loudest

headaches and whiny moans (el

bows to the floor beside toes

twisted achingly toward the

nearest door) are gravely

chanted twice weekly at the

chosen cathedral, Our Dear

Lady Pessimist’s Frown-

Dimpled Furrow (may

she rest in stasis or,

at the very least, in 

an emotionless peace).

mmmmmccxxi

“loss is the end of a conversation”

says conan o’brien, as if it is a
poignant cliché, and i suppose
it must be.  he’s speaking today
with kyle maclachlan, and the
context is the death of kyle’s friend,

who also played a very sigificant

role shepherding him into the big

leagues in show biz: david lynch.

but it strikes me almost like a
bell that’s been clanged while
over and around my head, that
then echoes with  duh!  duh!  duh!
that mom has been gone a couple
of months now, and i keep
wanting to call her, have gotten
so annoyed, depressed, dumb
founded, with not being able
to give her a call, not getting
an opportunity to continue 

the conversation, which wasn’t
much, really, was this almost
nothing that i worked so hard
creating so that we’d have a
lovely excuse to gab every
week or so, when we would

continue our pretty humdrum
conversation.  it was a thin
conceit that we’d developed
for over forty years, and it
turns out it was tremendously
important and relevant and
i miss it terribly.  i miss her
tons.  and of course i do.
which should not feel so unex
pected.  after all, i went through
the same thing for the longest
after dad died, twenty-five years
ago.  i often felt that it was a
construct created just to
maintain a connection, but
the urge to call her up occurs
so regularly now, and when it
happens, those are the moments
when i miss her, when i realize
she’s gone, when i want to call
her even more as that impossibility

sinks in each time.  how lovely

it would be just to extend

that conversation.

mmmmmccxx

tonight, i love

being who i am

and doing what

i’m doing.  i am

imagining you

listening to the

same songs i

am listening to,

going this music

freaks me out,

and that makes

me feel such

contentment.

i want to remain

on the verge of

ecstasy as i am

at this very mo

ment, hearing,

as i do, that

confounding

wrench being

thrown literally

into a wheel, or

something like

it but new and

undefinable, at

every single

beat.

mmmmmccxix

short take

imagine my surprise

when a country beat

hits my ears as I’m

listening to my latest

release radar.  i rarely

read social media

comments, but if i’m

not mistaken, i read

a couple this past

week, both of which

began something like

‘if i see the phrase

defying genre one

more time...’.

mmmmmccxviii

having been born near the end of the world

to be born in the year 1999
near the end of the world
is surely no luxury....

having been born in 1967
in the summer of love....

my love,
born in the year 2000,
has an exhausted brain,

keeps rattling on and on
about mid-terms, how
excruciating physics

and calculus must be,
was, is....

i took, i believe, exactly
three physics courses

in my lifetime,

three of calculus, as well,
or am i remembering
correctly, here,

at the end of the world?
it doesn’t matter
much, does it?

my boyfriend, who lives
in the opposite hemisphere
of this planet to the one

in which i live, keeps
hammering away,
studying in between bouts

of complaining (but so little,
i do miss his complaining)
about physics and calculus....

but instead, it’s humor, or
it seems to be humor,
how can one tell

at the end of the world
what is humor and
what isn’t?

“google,” he texts, “is
calling me dumb
and tired and defeated,”

and before that, something—
was this a practice question
in physics, or was it calculus—

that tells him that he is okay,
essentially.  he sends me a text,
the box’s background is, unusually,

black: “your brain is officially empty,”
the text within the black box proclaims,
“which is exactly why this is the

perfect place to stop.”  and then,
as if poignant in its meaninglessness,
“the answer is 600 deer.”

mmmmmccxvii

The Daily Humdrum

By now, you must think me terribly
boring.  If you know me or have ever
hopped onto this distorted narrative,
been the least bit intrigued, or were
simply patient, thinking that anyone
who’d whiled away so much of their
precious time concocting page after
page of such circuitous suspense
(am I giving myself too much credit
even there, I wonder) would surely,
at the end of such a self-obsessed

endeavor, have swollen into a semi-
satisfying period of recompense, for
both the narrator and, most especially,
for our dear reader (who is the real
hero of this all-too-interminable story,
in the end; which I relay with the most
sincere apologies, since these lines must
have caught you very much in a state

of sheer chagrin).  But that is most 

assuredly not the case, or has yet to be, 

and shall, by all logical calculations and 

sensible prognostications, never be.

mmmmmccxvi

Old School Shopper

I suppose that I’ve never found a good enough
reason to appreciate shopping online, at least
for clothing, accessories (I wonder when I last
purchased an accessory; it has been eons, for

sure) or groceries.  I have tried getting a few

items of clothing once; well, I was enrolled in a 

job placement program that allotted two hundred
dollars or somesuch for business clothes, and

everything I chose came to me in a color that wasn’t
anywhere near the color it looked on the screen,
or the material was something I’d never imagined,
and most items, of course, did not fit me at all.  I

can say the same for groceries, which I’ve attempted
to order online a few times.  When I’d give in to doing
so, I’d always assume the experience would be easier
to manage financially and would have me being more

practical with my choices, so that I’d get more of what I
needed and less of what I’d never eat or use.  But not 

only did it turn out to be more expensive than if I had, 

like usual, swiftly scooted down each aisle of the market,

barely even considering the items I tossed into the cart,
and most often I’d forget to adjust the settings to “do not
substitute” and wind up with brands I’ve spent all my
life avoiding or—for reasons that would soon become

clear—I had never heard of.  I’m not sure why in the
heck I’m thinking of shopping for anything, given that
I am living through a stretch in which am more destitute
than at any other duration in my life (yes, it’s too true,

despite my all-too-public bouts with being in the poor
house over the past few years, despite my every effort 

at attempting to become gainfully employed; it’s all
too exasperating).  But would I ever kill for a diet soda

right now.  It’s nearly one o’clock on a homebound Sunday
morning, and suddenly I remember I have, yes, I think
a couple of dollars and just enough change to purchase
a two-liter bottle of Diet Dr Pepper.  So, without a thought

on how to wrap this up in a sensible manner, I’m up
and out the door before the corner store closes.  It’s the
weekend, and I’m giddy with the notion of pouring a
cup of cold carbonated diet soda.  Until next time, when

The Ennui Continues.

mmmmmccxv

Vanishing Plot

sound is important.  he’s dreaming.
he can’t get out of his consciousness.
he’s awake.  who’d he wake up next to?
he’s alone.  he was always awake.

not always.  for a few days.  how many
days?  he stretches his forehead to flatten
it out, trying to concentrate.  when was he
last dreaming?  he didn’t just wake up.  he’s

been awake.  but just a portion, a fragment.
he’s trying to remember anything from his
latest dream, even when it was, what he
felt.  he wasn’t alone.  he was with the

people who blow themselves kisses.
all the time.  it’s all he remembers.

with these people.  they must be
friends.  they kiss the prints
on their fingers, blow the
kisses off lightly, and

then, very delicately,
gracefully, as if through
a freshly spritzed scent
flowing through the air

of a department store,
they walk through the
swirling air filled with
their very own kisses

until they, presumably,
feel sufficiently adored.