mmmmcdvii

Biggest Racy Race Yet

Today I rode in the Kentucky Derby.
That lie wasn’t as fantastic as it felt.
But there have been horses. A few
of them. And ghosts of other horses.

What I generally lie about is of no
nevermind. But this I can tell you.
We made it to the Big W before any
of the others. Wait a minute. That

was when I found myself in a movie
full of washed up comedians. To be
forward it was a great success of a
flick. Was it the first of its kind, this

film of assorted nearly dead comedians?
Burt Reynolds just winked at me in real time.

mmmmcdvi

Teasing Away the Burden of a Day

     I’m infused with the day
     even tho the day may destroy me.
                              —John Wieners

I’ve watched the news, and
like every week’s lately it’s
big news, nerve-wracking
news, stuff happens in one

singular day that could be
all of the headlines for a
month. And sure, today’s
news, while big, or its big

gest news, as news relates
to me, as my interest in the
news, news junky that I am,
exists, found me breathing

easier, the accumulated
burden that I’ve been
carrying (I’m not alone,
with regard to this one

thing, there are millions of
us carrying this weight)
feeling lighter, a palpable
vertically-rejuvenated gait

combines with whatever
swagger I premeditate
and then perform, has me
feeling perhaps ten years

younger. And, oh, ten
years ago. If I stop what
I’m doing just to hark back
for a moment, I can

begin to understand that
massive portion of the
population that seem
ever-bent, necks twisted,

looking backwards, lost
in the fog of nostalgia.
Lost in a fog is my own
odd state given my bent 

to spend so much time
glaring at the past and
examining my present.
But I don’t do this to

lose myself in the glory
days of youth. I think
of it more as a scientific
approach toward what’s

to come, the future. It’s
limited (meaning in duration,
not edition), and elsewise
nothing but a dry run. I’d

like to make the best of it.
To make it my best. It
hasn’t always worked out,
but I shudder to imagine

who I’d be if this hadn’t
been the way I twist for
all these years. When
driving, one cannot

spend a lot of time
looking backwards
is just my experience.
Right ahead happens to 

be my primary line of focus.

Nothing against anyone
else’s reality, really.
Meanwhile, I do hope

that you have enjoyed
these freshly-minted lines
about little old me.

mmmmcdv

Derivative

The very first poem
I wrote was called
“Math.” It was an
assignment (“Write
a sonnet.”) that
was given to my
class as homework
when I was in
fourth grade

mmmmcdiv

and what do I do with these notes?

sometimes I’ll go five six days without
writing a note. not one. and I have
to tell you, or maybe it’s just that I
want to tell you. I want to tell you
that when I go nearly a week with
out writing one single note there
is something physical that begins
to settle within me. that is an
illness. like a cold or something.
more like a stomach virus. like
what we call food poisoning, does
that not cover a lot, food poisoning?
yes it seems to me that is a particularly
good way to describe what it is like. there
is this getting sick that happens in which
it feels that all of what is inside of me
needs to come out and tries so hard
to do so but nothing does. so my
entire body becomes this thick
achy swollen log sort of thing
and I’ll sit with it and sit with
it and sometimes I have to
go to work or take a walk
to the grocery store or
run errands but I’ll do
just about anything to
get out of moving at all
when I’ve not taken a
note for several days.
it doesn’t take very
long for me to realize.
in fact the older I get
the sooner into this
big achy swollen log
thing I am when I
realize that of course.
I haven’t taken a note
in nearly a week. and
notes are easy. how
easy it is to write a
note! some notes
are easier to write
than others but come
on. so I write it down
whatever it is I write
and almost immediately
I feel just fine.

mmmmcdiii

these aren’t reasons

the thing I hear a lot and
this has been true for as
long as I can remember
is get to the point. get

to the point, I’ll hear.
cut to the chase, I think.
whittle it down to only
what is necessary, I

wonder what is necessary.
I wonder. and what is the
reason you are telling me
this, I’ll imagine someone

is thinking as I’m about a
third into a very particular
explanation. about some
thing that to me is quite

important. to relay. so
that others may understand
what is going on. with me.
or in general. I’m not really

sure, I think. at work there
is sometimes the need for a
discussion. for talk. for an
explanation. so i explain.

get to the point, they say.

mmmmcdii

the thing I do

the thing I do is the thing I do is
I take notes. lots of notes meeting
notes to do lists notes for poems I
wanna write notes about notes and

notes for other notes. and what do
I do with these notes? I’m not sure.
I’m going through my notes and I’m
still going through these notes and I’ll

tell you what. just bear with me for
a duration, if you will. [the sound
of fluttering paper fills the arena
coffin-sized room]. would it be

okay if you just can you just come
back later? I’ll tell you as soon as
I figure that out. how might I
reach you when I do? thank

you for coming. have a good
night everybody.

mmmmcdi

youth

scattered across the
countryside like cows,
animals of a kind,
youth,
show us what they
think they have.
the rest of us
grow cross,
place one arm
over another and
glare or pretend
not to stare.
those with
more discipline
make good with
a side-eye of glum.
those with a modicum
of pity go about their
business without a
singular stance that
would not find even the
blurriest patch of these kind
in their peripheral visions. these
folks know the very same thing
those who can’t keep their
soiled noses to themselves
do, which is what these
distant middlings have,
what they’ve got, it’s
piping hot, too, down here
in the valley of the moment.
but more than that, the
naive show-offs practicing
their poses for each other,
and perhaps, but a much
smaller fraction, percentage-
wise, for their mothers and
fathers, those wise asses
who can’t keep their eyes
off of them, have something
those curious, envious
providers do not:
a whole lot of
potential. but the
worst part, and these
loving oglers know this, too,
is that most will never begin
to see it, even if frantically
searching for it, whatever
it might be. and most
that do finally catch a
glimpse don't bother
to lift a finger at it,
much less stretch out
a lanky arm, its bones
still vibrating from the
physical growth,
in a decent
attempt to
grasp it.

mmmmcd

shifting ground

to have one’s feet
firmly on the ground.

how important it is
and yet how important

to seek out the uncom
fortability of flying, of

having no ground upon
which you can stand.

rollercoasters, recreat
ional drugs, taking one

self out of one’s com
fort zone, these are all

ways to tease oneself
into a surreality. to

fly from the ground
or be unable to stand

or to get so vertiginous
that look, how cool, i’ve

shaken up my routine,
i’ve done what’s neces

sary in order to gather
new perspective. these

are some of the more fun
ways to screw with reality.

then there are the times
that you might find your

self crawling on the floor
so dizzy you cannot do

anything to force yourself
to stand erect. or your

boat has capsized, this
could be a metaphor, but

imagine the reality—you
must swim either until

you are found, captured,
saved, eaten or reach the

relative solidity, even if
nothing but consisting of

the tiniest grains of sand,
you’ve made it to a shore,

you’ve found land, that
relatively solid ground.

today seems a topsy-
turvy world. the ground

seems to be shaking, i’m
dizzy, i keep thinking i

hear something about
being careful for the

quicksand. up seems
down and down seems

up. there is nothing
giddy about today’s set

of unknowns. if i were
to think on it, my mind

would develop a labyrinth,
and i’d go lower and lower,

thinking of the darkest
possibilities, how they

surely could be true,
and as if overnight

this feeling has come.
built up for years, with

memories of trauma
that i now clearly have,

i remember this feeling.
it is very similar. if these

unexpected twists amount
to learning, experiencing,

and moving forward, I’m all
for it. I’m so very in favor

of that. But how can I do
anything to assist that things

move in that direction? How
might I not just delay something

inevitable and horrid, but
eliminate it entirely? Just as 

I’ve made way out of what I 

hope are the worst depths, the

darkest years of my life.
Every single tiny act had

unforeseen and abnormally
numerous obstacles. But

today, I find myself thrown
back into the unknown, feel

frozen in a present in which
if there is a future, how

will it be in any way re
cognizable? How will I

navigate the indeterminate
earth this time? And if I

make it to a firmer location,
what will that place be and

will I know more about how
to live upon it in the best way

by having gone through the
indeterminable current time

period? These questions are
exhausting. And not exhaustive.

What motivates you, I wonder,
to keep going during such times?

What will motivate me?

mmmmcccxcix

Don’t judge a book by its cover if you’re half blind.

Also, if you keep your mind
so open all the time it’ll leak
right out before you know it. 

And speaking of the tick of

the clock, time heals some 

wounds, particularly the
ones you take good care
of. Allow thou, then, when

all seems lost an avenue
out, an outlet, a period
of rest, exclamation point.
Don’t be coy about your

future. Once you find
yourself caught in a
predicament, you must
first seek out the nearest

bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
So if it ain’t in your
meds cabinet already,
what the hell are you

doing still listening to
me? I’ll rattle out an
infinite spume of non
sense no matter whose

presence I happen to
be enjoying. Which is
most always nobody’s.

What a swell gift your

presence would be,
though. If only I knew
how to find you, I’d take
the time to do just that,

in hopes I’d have the
actual time. And if I
don’t, at least I can’t
say I did something.

mmmmcccxcviii

America you boil over
                  —John Wieners

I begin in my coffin-sized home^*
knowing how to brood what is
dark. ^*Here there is no toilet,
only a sink, the flow down its

drain slowed from these nearly
suffocating years. I don’t want
to talk about it. But I once moved
coolly from state to state. Before

the days when doing so meant
out of the frying pan into the
fire. Memories of July 4th ammo
pop and splatter in my head,

echoing nostalgia’s warmth and
that life-long era of progression,
the only one we knew, that stirred
such giddy optimism. That is until

the men, still chewing at bones—
mouths with canine teeth too intimate
with flesh, the gnawing and split
ting of it—swam from the tops

of their towers and over the Rockies,
the Ozarks, the Appalachians, dove
into the Pacific, and from its deepest
caverns sought that thin line of light

toward which to aim before their
aqualungs were blown up by
the brine. They thought that
golden sliver of shine would

show them to the surface,
lead them to the moon they’d
seen but never felt. Instead,
with fingers welded to elaborate

triggers, they would rule the
planet with such fear they’d
frighten even (or especially)
earth’s most naive inhabit

ants. Upon overladen thrones
they survey their kingdoms of
cartographers and so-called
space explorers, who are

all anxiously at the ready,
mapping the cleanest ways
to the dark side of the moon,
that goofy golf ball in the sky.

These rude rulers wonder where
it goes when it is gone, which is
when they cannot see it. And
like men with no memory, for

that is who they choose to be,
joy and terror fill their soulless
selves as they walk from mountain
top to tops of further mountains,

careful of the boundaries that are
invisible, craven for that chalk-
white grief-filled glimmer that
never fails to startle each into

a dumb shock when it is caught
but with a glance from the corner
of a shrunken yellowed eye.

mmmmcccxcvii

I begin in blue knowing what’s cool
                          —John Wieners

because I’ve been down

Fillmore enveloped by the

bruise-colored fog and I

know the blues more than

just personally. the sun up

there somewhere trying to

burn it all up into global war

ming. my hot heart sieving

ice, I’ve been slumped over

with Miles for miles, wake up

from a dream not knowing

whether it’s a dream or if it’s

real in which we’re caught at

the crux of two behemoths,

monster California blazes 

blown up like nuclear mushrooms 

by the swift-twisting winds, the 

dead of summer.  maybe it was 

just a dream. it was probably

a dream. now, shivering, having

lost my Miles, who would’ve 

ever thought?  frozen to the 

bone in San Francisco.

mmmmcccxcvi

Back to Basics

I know this wienie,
he doesn’t read, or
hasn’t in quite some
time. He used to. In

fact he’d keep an on
going list of every sin
gle book he ever read,
alphabetically by author.

I’ve got it here some
where. Then a year into
what we now seem to
lovingly call the pandemic,

he caught it, that scary
thing that isolated most
of us, this guy who used
to read. Covid. His case

was special, as it turns
out, because in the middle
of living through the aches
and the fevers and the scary

unknown and not being able
to smell anything (that’s how
he knew, before he got his
test, he opened a brand new

half gallon plastic bottle of
Pine-Sol, put his nose right
at the mouth of the bottle
where the lid had been and

took a deep whiff and smelled
absolutely nothing. Whoa! he
thought). But then he was also
getting up every hour having

to pee. And he also found him
self with an insatiable thirst, a
constant; he could drink as much
of anything at all and yet couldn’t

be quenched. And, the worst of
the worst, he’d wake up of a morn
ing and pull out a book, like usual,
and the words on the page were

nothing but a blur. Now that was
weird. And it really hasn’t changed
for him since. Despite the fact that
he was very shortly after recovering

from Covid diagnosed with diabetes,
hence all the random and more dia
betic-like symptoms. He visited an
ophthalmologist, got a new prescrip

tion for his glasses lenses, tried bi
focals and the newfangled alter
natives. But still, he wakes of a
morning, can see nothing much

but a blur on the page or screen 

until he cleans his glasses and 

screws up his head and puts his 

nose in the book or on the screen.

Well, Fuck that! I heard him
say several years into this,
having not read a book for
over a year and a half, or

not finished one, at least.
And so tonight he tells me
that he just finished reading
a book of poetry for the first

time since the pandemic, as
he lovingly calls that time-
period in which he got
Covid, diabetes, laid off

from his first full-time job 

in a decade and stopped
reading for a few years.

mmmmcccxcv

Who Are We Living For?

Can we not change the subject?
Didn’t everyone in the history of
everyone live during a pivotal time
in history. From some angle? Which

time was most pivotal? That’s not rhet
orical. Is this when we throw our hands
up and say we’ve just been too curious?
Who here thinks they’re simply a cog in

a wheel? Well, not a wheel, but, oh, let’s
say a globe. Now I’m being too cute by half.
Hm, that’s the first moment I brought things
back to a singular me. I started this entire

thing wondering about the gutlessness of the
utilization of the plural, we. Who else is here
that isn’t saying, Oh, so he alone lives. We’d
all rather condescendingly tut-tut than own up?

mmmmcccxciv

Try Me

do all of these words
aligning the fancy
paper within these
pretty envelopes
tell the very
same story?

perhaps we
need a few
gophers running
around telling us all—
demanding—that we
tell it differently. or
that we say something
entirely different, top
to bottom.

we being the few of us
correspondents who are
left, trying to introduce
ourselves to perfect
strangers, day in
and day out.

the few of us. haven’t
the numbers been
recently crunched?
aren’t there more
of us now than ever?

and when we each
read the words scrawled
upon one of those pretty
pages after ripping open
one of those envelopes
that has only just arrived,
are we not just a little too loud
with our hello, nice to meet you,
my name is so-and-so, and i am
so happy to receive your missive.

i’m single. well, i’m actually
in an open relationship, but
the real truth is i’m married,
fully committed, and i’m staring
over this pretty letter out to my
backyard from my porch swing
that i swing back and forth upon
most evenings because the weather
is always nice here. i grew up in...
i went to school at... in the armpit
of the nation, that is correct. i studied
a lot of things, but more than anything,
school was a place where i began to really
understand who i was. and who i am is....

mmmmcccxciii

Journalistic Research

it’s not possible to be
impartial

with a sense of humor.
so i preach

for days. it’s not silly
in the least.

it’s not pretty. these
are the understatements

we wear like armor.
which i call

underwear. i find
nowhere to stop

being the world’s
lonely only

cop. it bears
repeating that

impartiality requires
a distinct lack of humor.

the funny kind. so
ain’t it a kick

that i’ve taken up
directing traffic,

which, okay, is a
clown’s job if ever

there was one. but
let’s say there was a murder,

attempted, premeditated,
completed, a double homicide, even.

whatever. and they send a
dummy like me to clean up

the mess. or more hilarious,
as a preventative? let me

just ask you, in all seriousness,
if it were your last minutes,

and you were this close to
being a goner, where would

you rather be: sitting in
church in the middle

of a sermon, or in the
audience during

a stand-up comedy
performance?

mmmmcccxcii

Birds in Such Colorful Display

Lately I’ve been recording
a lot of my own pages of
writing, my own poems,
the poems in this very

long group of my
almost daily writings,
and so I’ve been posting
many of these recordings

that I’ve made out loud of
my own words knitted with
intention at various aspects
of the past twenty-two years,

occasionally finding sets that
I wish I could catch the spirit
of writing today. Sometimes
that is almost possible. In the

style of. Rather than renditions
or riffs on short parts of poems
or even new versions of entire
pieces, which are often easier to

do?  Yeah. Today the ones that have
given me the itch to try to repeat
stylistically are from sixteen, seven
teen and eighteen years ago around

this time of year, summer. How
specific I’m being. Yet how vague,
because is it the style of a piece I
want to duplicate or what I might

have been feeling at the time that
I wrote these pieces that give me
a bit of a tingle up the spine like a
few of them have for me today?

Perhaps it is strictly impossible, this
repetition or revival of whatever it
was. Of course I can’t be or do the
same exact thing altogether so as

to create in me such duplicate desire, 

but the attempts at these things can
set off a series of echoes that are,
as far as I am concerned, nice to

listen to. But I’m not the same.
Even a line identical to one I wrote
however long ago will mean a thing at

such a distance far from what the original 

line did.  It is as if the lines speak un

ecognizable languages at each other;

they look the same but are so many
years separated from each other.

This lack of resolution, the gap between
meaning, is the joy of it all, no matter
how fun it is to try on the old woven
words if a jacket found at the darkest

end of a closet, were I to have
such an aged one that I might explore.

mmmmcccxci

When In Doubt, Call A Friend

should have been the punch line
of today, and vengeance isn’t
anything that comes easy to me,
but I’ll rebelliously rather begin with

the fortune that I received in the
cookie that was in the little plastic
baggie I received with my main
and only meal of the day today at

Panda Express in what was recently
called Westfield Mall in, I’ll go ahead
and say it just this once, dying down
town San Francisco, sometime mid-

afternoon. Where I lost my wallet
either at the cash register trying
unsuccessfully to receive a 20%
discount I was promised via email.

Or at the soda fountain after getting
all of my food after that unsuccessful
attempt somehow together in one
clump within my arms. Or at the

table so close to that soda fountain
(in case I needed an extra sip or two
before I finished my meal) where I
devoured my dinner. Or in the trash

can as I left the mall to head toward
Target, which is where I, after filling
up a grocery cart, finally realized my
wallet was missing, that it had no doubt

been discarded or left with all of the
plastic and green and government
issued thisses and thats that we all
deem so important because of their

absolute necessity at times—at one
of those four locations I just mentioned.
So rather than punch the end of the day,
I just thought I’d get it out of the way,

so that I might perhaps move forward
past 10:45pm on a night when I need
sleep, for tomorrow will be a gnarly one
at my job, and jobs—and jobs—are the

most important things not to lose in

this era of my clumsily slapdash life.

mmmmcccxc

a smile breaking along the groin
                     —Evan Kennedy

Things we all wish for. Like
acceptance and earth. For
glory. Or, if hungry, a pear,
an apple, an avocado. Or,

if really hungry, the push
of an extended belt buckle
on a dance floor. That’s no
belt buckle. After parking

each leather-clad horse,
the bumpy couple enters
a room over the saloon
that looks slept in singly.

The room sees the pair
fold and crumple, gets
a quarter night’s eye
full. And then, the

morning joins. The
audience is glued
until eleven or so
when the men dress,

retire to the saloon.
Poor noon.

mmmmccclxxxix

Rights

The celebration

site had been

shuttered, the

bragging rights,

what of them

that could still

be found,

bloody hand

held shards

left scattered

from the dis

integration.

mmmmccclxxxviii

Words in Such a Way

If half the book I write into
the ether thinks it is a book
then it is a book. This taking
the if I say I’m a poet then I

am a poet notion one step fur

ther. But is it just a notion? 

These things are lives unto 

themselves and those, if there

be any, who choose to read
them. I don’t. Not in the
ether. These I just breathe
in like the air that generally

or most times does not suffo
cate. The potions of airy air
that I send out into the world
are meant as a laughing gas,

not carbon monoxide. Most
often. Usually? No, not I.

mmmmccclxxxvii

If When I Use These
Words in Such a Way

I think I am the most me
then when I am actually most
being myself in that way that
there is no such thing as full

transparency? I believe I am.
I wonder all the time who that
is. I try to stake my claim (my
values?) and even at times force

myself into shape within that maze
of stakes. Or play it like a pinball
machine hoping for the ball to go
this way. No, that. This is one of the

many ways in which I construct that
which in the end will be called myself.

mmmmccclxxxvi

Moving Right Along

The hysteria of optimism pervaded.
I can remember it. I don’t want to
go back there, but don’t we all? It
seems so backwards-headed, this

retro I find myself looking forward
to. It is the direction I catch myself
looking. I think it was the afternoon
I spent in Tallinn, doing some sort of

run-of-the-mill tour of an old part of
the city. Big white wooden walls, a
bell tower, something like that. I’m
snapping away with my phone and I

see a rare line of graffiti scribbled
in waves, vertiginous swerves, at the
bottom of one of those walls, or near
where it met a leg-size height of con

crete. “Retro-futurism.” That’s all it
said. In Tallinn, Estonia. The guy
standing next to it like some old-timey
Vanna White, an arm half-outstretched

at it, as if for emphasis or something.

mmmmccclxxxv

Host Initiates Discussion Regarding Messy Coloring

Do you mean as a metaphor?
If the answer you’re going for
here, should you, of course, be
going for a particular answer

from me...are you? If the ans
wer that you’d like to hear is
by chance that it would mean
to me that you are asking me

to think outside the box, then
kudos. I mean, sure, that’s the
first thing that came to my mind,
but in all honesty, for me there is

nothing metaphorical about color
ing outside of the lines. I’m so
messy with visual arts, and cray
on coloring is absolutely no except

ion. On the other hand, the already
at least once elevated metaphor of
thinking outside of the box – is the
box a cubicle? is it your house? – or

it could go further: Is a box simply
where we each just normally exist?
Does it equal routine, normalcy
and/or boring? Is it a prison meta

phor? Either way, it’s all pie in the
sky stuff, which, and no, we don’t
have to discuss what a pie in the
sky is, how literal, how figurative,

how imaginative, except when I 
hear the phrase I have always 

imagined one of mom’s apple pies 

way out there, spinning around like

a flying saucer, only something
so delicious for a potential and
eventual encounterer. Unless
it was taken as a mode of agg

ression. Let me just tell you
the difference to me. Color
ing outside the lines is 
messy and awkward and

insecure me. Trying hard
as I might to make some
thing pretty. Never able
to do so beyond perhaps

ugly-functional. Thinking
outside the box, on the other
hand, is always looking out
for that fresh approach,

disproving everything old
is new again, disproving
there’s nothing new under
the sun, giving one (myself;

others, perhaps) a new per
spective at something they
either were on a never-end
ing attempt at finding, that

new way of looking at something 

ordinary or, better yet, that way
of seeing something they are
either always looking at or

never even knew existed, or
anywhere on that spectrum,
that is either poignant, enter
taining, enlightening, odd,

out there, that has potential
to be an obssessive thought,
perhaps become a quest,
something that quenches

a thirst and gets one exc
ited about a thing, that can
never be unlearned or erased.
Like imagining coloring out

side of the lines a metaphor for
thinking outside of the box, say.
Making my messiness meaning
ful. And I am certainly all for that.

mmmmccclxxxiv

Late Night Talk Show Celebrity Interview Poetry?

That’s a very odd question,
all things considered, but a
good one, and I’m happy to
try to come up with an answer.

Except how can I? My life has
been a peaceful one. Sure, I
get upset when tides turn this
way or that and when idiots

scream stupid shit from their
podia. And yes, most of my 

life we’ve been in one or more.
But I’ve never been anywhere

near the front lines of any of
those, nor any other, and so
they are more out of sight
out of mind than anything.

Which speaks volumes, does
n’t it? Says horrible things of
me. Worse still, I avoid the
news when it gets real. I mean,

and when does it, when it gets
anywhere near a front line, say, 

when a journalist is in harm’s way,
anywhere near it, I turn my eyes.  I

am so sorry. And yet I feel strongly
that this problem that hits so many 

in ways that I cannot even try to see
should be the only thing on the minds

of every one of us. Of all people on
this war-torn planet. At all times. At
least until all such aggression, and
the death and all of the horrific

symptoms of it are eliminated. How
utterly depressing to realize that
getting from here to there is
assuredly nothing I will ever do.

mmmmccclxxxiii

He’s Certainly No Dick Cavett!

Where do they come up with these
insipid questions? he’s thinking. A
dude who came of age in the 1980s,
this guest had the concept of brand-

forward down to a science.  An art.

He knew people who watched QVC for
hours, usually only half-watching it,
but it was on the television. He still
doesn’t understand how it is legal
to have prescription drug medication
advertisements run all hours of the day
and night now, not just that fifteen or
thirty minute commercial after the last
talk show ended back when he could
first officially stay up that late. What’s
he thinking?! Who is going to care
what my answer to this is?! That’s
when it dawns on him that maybe
the questions were meant to make
him seem insignificant, to bore the
fuck out of the audience, of the how-
many-ever millions who tune in. I’m
a freakin’ rock star! he reminds him
self before saying out loud Hell no!
and lifting his butt out of the un
comfortable chair and storming
right to the curtain, zipping between
the host and the audience whose

every mouth was agape and at 

the ready with their own response
to the dodo query about whether

or not they had ever purchased

anything from an infomercial, and

if so, what was it?

mmmmccclxxxii

Life Is Like an Interview Question

Forrest Gump could do that
much better than I could. Do
you know that I did not even
like chocolate until I was in

my late 40s, I think? I mean,
I’d eat it, especially in peanut
butter cups. But I’d be so angry
at the proliferation, the monopoly,

of chocolate flavor in the cereal
aisle, in ice cream stores or free
zers, and in candy bars. But to
your question, my box would be

the oddest most radical assort
ment you could possibly imagine.
Juxtapositions of flavor that would
be variously profound, disgusting,

astoundingly aphrodisiacal, a pick-
you-up, a hypnotic, a hallucino
genic, one perhaps in the shape
of a brain that helps you focus,

one that has you sleepwalking
shortly after ingesting, one that
has you sleeping after indulging,
with no sign of a hangover of any

kind the next morning, one that
has you overindulge upon swal
lowing, in whatever ways one
might imagine overindulgence,

one that ages you, one that turns
you back into a kid, one that makes
you get tall, you know, anything you
might find in Alice in Wonderland.

And that’s just, as they say, a small
sampling of the box of chocolates
that would be mine, were I to have
one of my very own.

mmmmccclxxxi

The Interview Arrives
at the End of the World

That’s a daunting one,
and one that has be
come so difficult for 

me to even think about.
Is it not sometimes
better to just place
one’s hands over
one’s eyes and ears?
(I’d never say that it
was, but doesn’t it
get exasperating,
whether sitting on
your laurels or jump
ing into the fray, it’d
be too much for me,
being an activist, a
real activist, not a,
say, I live in San 

Francisco wannabe 

activist, no offense 

meant to my fair
city nor to its inhabit

ants, of course.) I 

can’t even watch 

a live political 

debate, myself.

Anyway, as I

was saying, 

sometimes 

I think the 

only thing
that’d teach 

us all a real 

lesson, that

would make

the best kind

of change in

the world, is

Armageddon
itself.

mmmmccclxxx

When Asked for a Preference

     I won’t let the sun go down on me.
                              —Howard Jones

I have to laugh at that question. It
just reminds me of something that 

gives me a jolt, how when friends,
people who know me, suggest that,

of course when I’m going through
something that at that moment is
a fairly extended hell, for example,
I mean I’ve had some tough times,

and friends would read these, on 

occasion, folks who know me (it 

used to happen), and say I should

n’t be so...nostalgic is a word I would 

use, but, backwards-looking? the funny 

thing about nostalgia with me, and that

word rings more sweet than bitter, right? 

I can look back at times when I was a

horrible mess, weeping at every turn, 

say, and think, Weren’t those the days?,
I can, and they were, looking back fills 

me with such pleasure, an uncontrollable 

smile forming, I can’t help it. And those
days, even though they were horrid, I 

tell you. In reality. Or so I thought at 

the time.... In retrospect some were

hell in actuality. I can see that.
I came of age, well, I came of
age in my late 30s, at the earliest.
But.  I was an adolescent at the end

of the 1970s, the cusp of the 1980s,
so people my age either glow for disco
or for, say, Duran Duran, The Thomp
son Twins, Howard Jones – well, I’m

dipping a bit into obscurity, but that’s
where I am, and always was: the pre
sent as it aims like a madman at the
future. So when you ask which I prefer

most, sunsets or sunrises? I like dusk.
I love walking through a quiet city at
four in the morning. And when I’m
working, when I have a regular busi

ness hours weekday job, which has
been my paid career, which, thanks
to one of those not so great times
I almost got shut out of completely,

for several years, basically, but I’m
back in one now, and it’s energy for
me, and it’s awesome, say, to get
up at three in the morning and just 

do this tap tap tap or scribble scribble
for an hour or three before heading
into the office, somewhere in the
between of which the sun in my

vicinity will start to seemingly float
like a fishing cork upon the bay
for a while until the sky takes it
as its own for a few bright or,

perhaps, foggy hours. Either way,
if it’s straight above or starting its
descent or seemingly about to drown
in the Pacific, it’s all about where it

is. And where it’s going. For me. I
can find some happiness remember
ing where it’s been, who I was then,
but only in relation to who I am now,

and, well, just as importantly, how
that has me aiming toward some
body I want to be later, tonight,
tomorrow, next year, however

long it takes me to get there,
if I make it there, will I make
it there? I’m a now guy on the
move, always have been. And

yet, in answer to your question,
I have to say, and this may be
more about where the sun winds
up, for me, when it winds down,

but I am a sunset guy. Yeah,
I prefer sunset. I’m a morning
person, but the beauty of a sun
diving into the Pacific tells the

truest and most beautiful story
as far as I’m concerned. Go figure.

mmmmccclxxix

Interviewee as Artist or Art?

I can’t think of a work of fiction
that I’d want to model my life
after, at least not at the moment,
and that’s not the way I think when
I read. When I read something so
vibrant and so aspirational for me,
it’s not the work of art that I aspire
toward. It’s the artist.

mmmmccclxxviii

The Interview Comes Upon a Taboo Subject

It isn’t an unusual question,
and that’s a lot of the problem,
right? It’s jarring, brings me
back to my days look for a job

after being abandoned—yes,
I’ve got issues, and I’ll say it
plainly, without a hint of drama,
although perhaps now I’ll never

even know how true it was—after
being left for dead. (Oh, she is
such a drama queen!) I didn’t
die. It’s more about the time

frame you’ve given me that is
most triggering. Because, I
mean, everyone just got
weird and just slithered away.

Because I got weird. Because
of being abandoned, left for dead,
and all of my people just—pfft!—
evaporated. That’s my people,

still, that’s who I have, with
whom I now talk, party, dance,
play card games, go hiking,
gossip: vapor. The gang’s all

here! Oh, but look what you’ve
made me do, Barbara. And I
swore I wouldn’t. That was so
long ago. And the tables have

turned. But clearly it is still quite
meaningful to me, I’ll always be
so stumped, so confused, so hurt.
The more time that passes the less

sense it makes. Are people really...
this flimsy? Does the investment of
time, good and bad, intimacy, such
engagement, in the end, mean so

little. Thankfully, no. There are
exceptions. So how have I changed?
I can’t tell you. I was always a skeptic.
And I was always an optimist and a

romantic. And I suppose that I’ll
always be a believer. But I almost
gave up on humanity. How have I
changed? I’ll never give up again,

that’s for certain. And I’ll be even more
discerning. But to believe in humanity
and to believe in a human are two
separate things. I can believe in

humanity, but with individuals, in
the end, no matter how realistic,
how logical, how discerning, the
best I can possibly offer is hope.

mmmmccclxxvii

The Title for Which I Am Perishing

Is what I thought the piece
was called, but then I looked
again, more out of curiosity
than disbelief, because,
after all, I wrote it.

mmmmccclxxvi

I did this because

I was planning to go for
a long walk on what looks
like a beautiful day, but
sat here instead thinking
of these few lines to send
to you.

mmmmccclxxv

A Day in the Life of a Flounder

Which is what I’m calling this piece
inspired by a graphic that I just saw
in my feed on LinkedIn which was
entitled “A Day in the Life of a Founder.”

It looks to be a riff on the graphic of
the evolution of man that starts out
with a stooped ape-like figure and
winds up an upright human-like figure.

Except in this case it starts out as a
standing but slightly stooped human-
like figure that gets more stooped
then is seated with its hands over its

ears but by the end is sitting prostrate
on the floor with its head bowed as if
in prayer or obeisance. You get the idea, 

surely. But what’s funny to me about

this is that, well, I’ve been getting notices
from LinkedIn about jobs commensurate with
my experience (as they say). When I’m not
doing this (and, rather, getting paid), I’m

an Executive Assistant, by the way. Have
been for over 30 solid years now. That’s
my plug, in case you’re hiring. Haha. Any
way, the funny thing is that for some reason,

for several months now, LinkedIn has
been sending me, in addition to Executive
Assistant (and commensurate) job listings
on pretty much a daily basis, listing for jobs

with the title “Founder.” Founder? Really?
Who advertises for a job with the position
of Founder, I wonder. Wouldn’t the Founder
have not only found that job on their own,

but have founded it, so to speak? Seriously,
I am so intrigued by this conundrum that I
haven’t even opted out of receiving them. So,
much to my amusement, they keep coming.