Friday, September 18, 2020

Thursday, September 17, 2020


Text Message No. 10
(I think, therefore I am.)

How does one plow through
anything a day or month...
...might bring when every-
things so important.
That's right, when no-
thing is not extremely
important.  Life or
death; do or die.
Its a scientifically
proven fact that
stress shortens life.
So.  More life?
Or more stress?
A rational person
 (Dont look at me!
might very well argue
that the hedonists
had the right idea
all along.  We
had always
found nirvana.
With enough 
logic, anything
can be proven
(right or wrong).
So Im the mad
scientist stuck
in his little box
of a laboratory
all day metic-
ulously proving
that nothing
is wrong;
that, in fact
everything is 
just awesome.
I may not
make much
headway on
all of the tough
problems that seem
to get tougher and
tougher as time
rolls along.  But
my research al-
ways comes to
the spirit-lifting
conclusion that 
stress does not
even exist,
and, to boot,
I do.  So,
what are you all
worried about?
I wonder, but only
just a little bit.

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

Tuesday, September 15, 2020


The time is now.

History suggests 
that now is the 
time.  Now is 
where the me 
of the future 
will focus his 
gaze in order
to see me.
Ill be using
with the latest
along with
all of the 
focus I can
muster, just 
to hone in to
me now.  In
order, that is,
to determine
how on- or
the future
me is.  This
will most hope-
fully arm him
(the future me) 
with whatever we
need to adjust
our course
Should I make
this place bright,
go find a spotlight
to stand underneath?
Should I make a big
mess so Im easy
to find or slyly
hide my exact
somewhere I
am sure that I
will find when
the time arrives;
that best moment
to come in which
now can most 
possibly become
impactful? But. 
Might I even offer
a clue at all as to
whether I'm going
the right way, or
whether, instead,
I have ventured 
wildly astray?
It just seems
to me that I 
could not even
possibly offer 
the tiniest clue
to the me of
the future as
to whether
either of us
is aiming in
any way at
the place we 
hoped to live
to see – and, if 
not – how might
poor pitiable me
of now hold the
key to finding
which way that
would be? What
help might I 
give so that
an even elder 
me might final-
ly arrive?  Why,
given the me of
now, should I
even think it
a chance 
there’d be a
future me? 
This is a bit
of a quandary,
and one that
appears as
urgent as it 
is hopeless. 
Time is of the
essence, they
say.  But given 
how far off course 
we’ve sure to have
drifted, thanks esp-
ecially to me, and 
the lousy timing 
of my recent
detours, will
it even matter
if I am found?
Will there even
be a me that 
repeats the
same exercise
that the me
of times past
and future (?)
have been so 
meticulous to 
repeat (but how
long this repeti-
tion), now that 
I have proven
wisdom and
maturity irrel-
evant when it
comes to the 
pie in the sky 
notion that
life is best
as a quest for
paradise?  That
age makes the
human?  That
the best years
in life are, stat-
istically speaking,
yet to come?  Or 
did I have it wrong 
all along?  Am I
following this
inherent / in-
map toward
an impossible
nirvana?  One
that I never
shall, in this
see?  For
what great
fete befits
this existence,
a journey or
a destination?
I suppose I’d
better quickly
make my mark 
as pronounced
as I can.  Because
on the whole, I’d rather
give us all a chance
to see.  Hello out
there!  I hope you
can find me!  Here 
I am.  Hey!  If
you’re out there 
can you please 
look at me!

Monday, September 14, 2020


Text Message No. 8
(a stunningly ignorant
look at where dreams
end and nightmares

How embarrassing
to be alive in the 
21st Century, when
the powermongers,
former playboys,
will only perform
for the dunder-
heads?  And what
heartache it is to
watch as these
aging puffballs
play stupid;
to witness
the speed
at which ev-
olution can be 
completely re-
wound and per-
haps  irrevocably 
[?!?] undone!
We scratch
our poor 
heads into
wondering how
we awoke from 
such long elysian
dreams only to
find ourselves ig-
nored, forbidden 
to make even a
walk-on appear-
ance in a show 
we mistakenly
believed was
earned and
was ours.

Sunday, September 13, 2020


Text Message No. 7
(searching for life in a distant galaxy)

what good is talking if you don
want to talk. be more forthright.
with yourself.  be specific about
how alone you yearn to be.  i
t even write that without
a pang.  come on.  objectively:
who wants to be alone?  oh.  
right.  okay.  duh.  sorry.
which is better, losing faith 
in humanity, or believing 
nobody will ever get you? 
get what?  somebody. 
at least before you start 
making noises about the 
importance of engage-
ment, it might be smart
to start small.  earn a
few words.  build a
little box to put 
them all in.  take 
a few baby steps 
before you decide 
whether walking is 
even the way you 
want to go.  are you 
there?  if so, hit me back.

Saturday, September 12, 2020

Friday, September 11, 2020

Wednesday, September 09, 2020


Text Message No. 3
(Some Important Questions About God And The Cinema)

Tuesday, September 08, 2020

Sunday, September 06, 2020


The Freudian Slip

has potential

as a title in that

it might be followed

by a saucy story or

a couple of shots

of poignant

double entendre,

something that

gives the reader

a little slap which

is followed shortly

by a rather stinging

slap, or a feeling of

déjà vu that quickly

and hauntingly is re-

vealed to be a gaping

crack on the surface

of the very soul of

the reader, something

that might force her

to contort into a

the shape of the

caricature in

The Scream,

never able

to leave

that shape,






from and

then quickly


back into the

shadows at the

edge of town, a

creepy reminder

of the ugliness that

can almost always

be found when we

dig too deeply.

And at the end of

this performance,

there might appear

an Oedipal character,

recognized by each

member of the aud-

ience as oneself,

who appears

on a muddy set

and is dark

as murk, but

for something

it has in its

tight grip;


spotlit by


that quickly

and arrhythmic-

ally gouges deep,

deep, deeper into

its body, its flesh,

its hull, until the

theater is flooded

with a throbbing

red fog.

It might

just as easily

serve as an

alert to whom-

ever might pass

to watch out

for clichés, which

might be buried

so deeply within

a big monster

of a cliché 

that it might

be a bit disturbing

when the actual

cliché farm is

arrived upon

at some un-

godly hour 

like 3 in the

morning or

just as dusk

shows up at the

butt end of a less

than memorable

weekend.  It is

a pretty ordinary

title that has about

an ocean-sized 

amount of po-

tential. From 

here, things 

can go upwards 

to pretty much

anywhere.  I

wonder where

you thought you

might be going 

(if you thought

you might be

going anywhere).

Or if you even

gave it a thought.

Was there any

trepidation?  I

wonder how you

feel about me now?

Friday, September 04, 2020


Girl with the Typewriter Dies

attempting to help her old friend

Nathan brand his new mail order

business.  Fruit, he says, to which

he replies lime, watermelon,

strawberry.  Socko! she

thinks, having always

loved him.  Red sun,

purple pickle, he says,

and he isn’t just waxing

poetic.  As the evening

progresses at each word he

enunciates, she lets out a

lollipop – just a tiny mumbled

vapor – and then in a sort of

backwards fashion, as if via

the tops of both sets of

knuckles at the ends of

her short, cartoon-like

arms, she tries

to plug her

mouth with

an imaginary


Thursday, September 03, 2020


The Jigsaw

That process of putting the puzzle of

you (that’s me) together in front of

the someone (whom we shall name I 

Wanna), at least as much as that control


is yours (that’s mine)….  It’s laughable

to me that I’m even an ounce of a mystery.

And I really know that I’m not (nor never


was) brooding.  But I can find myself (and

have on too often an occasion) jaw-dropped

amazed at how large and self-important parts

of me remain so unfiguroutable to the folks


I’d really love to get got by.  That’d be those

closest, especially those with whom I set out

(with sheer intentionality) to make .. the most


close!  I generally chalk this off to just one

of those things I’ve lived with ever since 

refusing to be read like a book.  And who really 

wants (to be) Ducky when Ren McCormack’s 

in town?!.  When it comes to such puzzles, I 

suppose it might be true that the secret to being

a you (or a me) might lie somewhere a whole

lot closer to the being than the showing.

This thought and ones of peering out

my bedroom window over and over

and over, age six through seventeen,

often accompany each other–another

unnecessary mystery, perhaps, but

what’s a big backyard tree if not a

puzzle of some sort?  A puzzle

with maybe just too many branches,

I am thinking. But still .. memories.

Having my eyes stretch almost all the

way through the slats of the blinds

when (and how often!) up pops

a little rainstorm that’s soon enough

spitting sticks (little branches of elm) 

all over the backyard (which is pretty big!).

But what’s even to be made of the concept 

of big when later that same week, say: your 

self-same eyes (through the very same slats) 

are all agog with MOVEMENT,

a hailstorm, to say the least.  Wherein –

according to the pelted alarms going off

all over town – almost surely must have

living somewhere within it (and at the very least)

a tornado (or two?).  Now that kid knows well

that the elm’s got sticks and that the elm’s got

well, a super extra long and thick arm of yet 

another elm tree .. halfway up itself – 

and that that long .. let’s-call-it-a-bough ..

drips a weathered rope from which, 

almost all the way down to a

small but familiar dirt patch (that's churning

up a loaf of mud on this occasion), has dangling

an old Uniroyal tractor tire.  Yes, that same tire

about which everyone who’s ever

actually visited has always asked “How exactly

did that get up there?”  (“Wull, I dunno .. Dad?”) ..

You’ve swung that tire for ages; almost all

yours.  And what happens when – no,

don’t look out there now! – just past

where the rope is tight-strung, somewhere

just about where the tree’s HEART (the 

WHOLE tree’s heart) must surely beat, 

or so you’ve always figured, just SNAPS!?

And then, with a little whirl of the Pinto’s

windshield wipers, say .. after who knows

what-all destruction takes place, mostly

just in the form of time passing,

here you are at the trunk of that great elm. 

It’s not really even sittable anymore.

It’s just sort of there, without anything else but

the mud and a few of the old beagle’s bones.

This is, needless to say, well after you’ve picked

which anti-hero you’ll still be trailing (more than

likely long after you’ve given up on the idea of

any hero at all, really).  Gone are the days filled

with thoughts about miracles performed by Dad. 

Gone are the days laden with weather-related fears,

or of being beholden to anything that might snap a

tree in two for any other reason but to create a product

(Like a piece of that puzzle?  That’s another thought

that doesn’t cross your mind, of course.)

Today, there’s just the mud, the blankish

canvas of the past, a bit of chicken that’s

been rubberized by a long-gone dog,

and a backyard that if given notice at all just ..

seems considerably smaller.  And if one were to

approach this figure of you, one might

almost hear a sort of constant tinkle-tink

emanating from somewhere just behind

the big round eyes of a guy that’s

just about out-maneuvered lanky

into something a bit more

stump-like.  And, yeah, 

that would be, in retrospect

an unrepentant me, more drool

than brood, with a head clean empty 

but for a percussive, metallic-arrythmic 

garble coming from a group of I Wanna

all clinking and clanging and whining to be 

found and all figured out.

Tuesday, August 25, 2020


The Hill With No Fire

The hill of blooms
is a disaster, having
so recently lost its
battle with the hill
of dreams, and this
just on the heels of
enduring the scourge
of the desiccated riv-
ulets (the arcane sky
rolls its big orange
eyes, squeezing out
the slightest bit of
steam).  The rest
of us, all of God’s
creatures, no 
longer able to
slink onto the
set stealthily
enough to go 
relatively un-
noticed by a 
dwindling future
of gawking, needling
fans (and what an audience!) 
the prop mavens, having already
scoured our obscure, imploding
planet readying for this weeks
episode of How to Grow Hungry
and Die w/o Ever Taking a Breath,
each lie grasping for a state of semi-
consciousness just under the crust
of the knoll at the bottom of the
other side of this once wondrous
plateau, in a room called the
Cavern of Blue Dreams 

Saturday, August 08, 2020


Meanwhile massive trees have whispered thumbs...
                                               —Kevin Killian

We all want to
get out.  Some
of us, on a 
want to go

Friday, August 07, 2020


a conversation

i just don’t
how i can
so well

     i agree.
     what a
     true nerd.

you have
to admit
that it’s
a pretty

     btw, i really
     need some

i’m just so
unused to 
being able
to so elo-
quently and
do that!

     no need to
     be sorry.

what is
to me lately?

     you’ve de-

it just makes
me so angry
that i could
not do this
years ago!

     you always
     resort to 
     the brains,

so what you’re
saying is that
i am right.

     . . .


     sorry, but
     that was
     very funny.




Thursday, August 06, 2020


i keep thinking 
of what i was 
going to name
this.  i suppose
it was too good
to remember.  i
keep wanting to
rhyme remember
with ember, but
now it’s a bla-
zing flame.  i
worked tooth
and nail on
all my to do’s
only to see
the whole 
thing go up
in smoke.  my
work, the list,
my tooth, my
nail and what-
ever it was 
that i was 
going to 

Wednesday, August 05, 2020


not the best one

it is a routine,
this sinking
toward sleep,
shuffling to-
ward the door-
way to dream-


it has
ever en-

and then
that des-
grab hold
and are

out of
and into
the light
left the 

then.  it 
comes to 
you.  fol-
lowed by a
second jolt
(only moments
ago you were
at the doorway
to dreams), the
the voice...
is mine?

and there
were words.
the words.
the only 
ones re-
called, but
swiftly, were
chilli relleño.


Tuesday, August 04, 2020


telegraph from
the rock and
the hard place




of the


in the

Monday, August 03, 2020


making cents

he’s an oddball
but no baddie,
really.  he makes
his lists to do and

never orders
anything to go.
the seafarers
know him for

looking at
blue whales
a bit askance
and for em-

long periods
of time.  i
saw him

myself only
once.  he was
reading an
atlas that 

never even
all of this
comes to be.

and the itchy
desire to make
it more and more
absurd as i go along

captures me and
turns me into the 
boy who cried 
wolf!  i try to 

slap on an
adroit con-
clusion as
if it were

the taut
and ripe
of a

but then
i realize

this cannot
be right. it
just wouldn’t
make sense to

make sense
at all.  so i
aim for

my worst
i grow more
and more com-

fortable with this
madness and the
dark shadows 
wrap them-

selves back,
and inward, 
curling at
and into my

skin, which
remains in-
tact, gives
no proof
of evil’s

ance, be-
cause evil

in the