Friday, January 24, 2020


My Ex

I just put him into
my last poem with
a resounding clunk.

My efforts at humor
know no bounds.  
However, I be-

lieve that the
phrase, Ya big
lunk! which O-

live Oyl says
near the end,
even as back-

handed as it
might be, is

at least a par
ial compli-
ment, right?

I mean, no 
matter how you
spin it, wasn’t

there always 
some kind of 
raw attraction

between Olive
and Bluto?  Even
if seedy and faux

repulsive, didn’t
the big galoot 

enormously more
sex (appeal?) than
Popeye ever did,

even eating his
cans of spinach.
I mean, even Wim-

py had a better deal
of a meal than poor
old Popeye did.

Wednesday, January 22, 2020


teevee encompasses
almost everything.

     When I poke my fingers into them I can see it
     When I poke my fingers into them I can see it.
                                                     —Jack Spicer

maybe I am just
ing stuff and be-
ing paranoid. but
at least I am foc-
used.  so it might
be great to talk.
plus, who the
fuck wants to
talk with any-
one when it’s
something that
is planned un-
der the most 
ominous and

let’s find
another par-
ade, she said.
which i think
meant, so, hey,
what’s some-
thing much better
to yap about
than drama-
tical suspense?

nobody paid
any attention
after that. there
were just too ma-
ny channels, i
personally think.
i am not really
sure, however.
harvey had the
phaser and he
barely used it.
nobody said
anything a-
bove a whis-
per, or at least 
over the voice
of rue mcclan-
ahan (it was
decided early
on that poli-
tics was off-
limits).  may-
be when maude
spoke (you know
how she always 
yell-spoke), there
were some mini-
convos (the hip-
sters, the ones 
who would ev-
en say convos
back then), at
a decibel level
slightly under
maude’s.  god
knows that’s not
her name.  or does god
know that?  one can 
never be too sure.

the scientists know.
global warming knows
(there was a debate 
about whether this 
was politics or sci-
ence).  jane fonda 
knows (there was 
the same debate,
except instead of
science they most-
ly said something
unfriendly about
vietnam. and poor
henry fonda, and
all in the name
of patriotism for
chrissake. pat-
riotism!  patron-
age!  patrilineal
poppycock!).  to

which i crack-
led something
about how she 
was on this fab
show called grace
& frankie.  or frankie
& grace.  and there 
were a few unpuzzled
looks, particularly from
harvey, who looked ab-
solutely delighted as he
spoke into his phaser, 
first frankie & grace
(nothing), then grace
& frankie, and the 
morning turned in-
to the afternoon and
the afternoon turned
into midnight and
the elation was, well,
i think there were
some in attendance
who were allergic
to happiness.  it 
happens.  but oth-
erwise the elation
was so contagious
that five of us were
still watching epi-
sodes at seven the
next morning.  it
is not necessary
to see that we
laughed, we
cried, we had a
lot of sandwiches
and drank a lot
of merlot.

Political incorrectness

Tuesday, January 21, 2020


it’s not that i’m atheist on porpoise
(i can’t help that i was born this way)

this morning i attempted
to log in to,

but somehow i caught my-
self before it was able to

be revealed.  will the real please stand

up (and here, i want to 
say “i am groot” mainly

because i am not, but also
because television).  tv has

entered my life once again.
it reminds me of all of the

beautiful ugly things to 
which i am attracted.

but i did not need the
boob tube to remind

me of such things.  i’m
a hypocrite (she’s a hypo-

crite, he’s a hypocrite,
they’re all hypocrites,

wouldn’t you like to
be a hypocrite, too!).    do 

you think sammy davis jr
ever ate an m&m.  here’s

to hoping that the candy man
did not.  but he passed into

the great beyond before
the political correctness

that was half of post-
modernism ate the 

peanut butter sandwich 
of homogeneity and arose

the demon with the seven 
heads and the three sixes 

(go ahead, you can hunker 
down on that with chagrin).

no, it was well before that.
well, was it before that?  

yes, as surely as it a was well
after his toe-tapping demise 

that came the moment when 
somebody dropped their choc-

olate into somoebody
else’s peanut butter.

it was the wondrous white
chocolate of santiago and

the butter was actually made
in beirut from hazel toes.

not my grandmother ha-
zel’s toes, which were

frostbitten on martin luther
king junior’s birth-

day, one year before it
was a federal holiday.

quick, which year did
i just make up like i

was wearing fish-
net dreams and 

fantasy fishhooks
(and don’t think

too fast lest Lester
the ventriloquist’s

major dummy rises
from his rimshot grave)?

Monday, January 20, 2020


A Dying Language

I nicked myself shaving
this morning as the person
I saw in the mirror, who was
not me but my imagination,
perhaps a vision from the other
end of the planet, the opposite
end, or perhaps complete imag-
ination, evaporated — leaving my
face markedly odd in the mirror, fractals
of it, cracked in dozens of pieces, or so it
seemed, by the dancing rivulets of crim-
son rushing down my cheeks and ears
and over my lips and chin, down onto my
white-haired chest.  These scarlet lines made
me forget the tragedy of the evaporation of my
mirrored companion.  I have an active imagina-
tion, as my friends, my doctors tell me.  I still 
recognized the beautify of the tiny puff of mois-
ture that disappeared into something like a tiny war
of droplets of acid played out until my glistening
red facial springtime thaw forcing me into dozens
of pieces became even more beautiful than the
fancy evaporation and disappearance of my face’s
companion face.  The luck of the razor and the anguished
hand.  That hand that had yet to cup the, if were to imagine
it to be real somewhere, somehow, face that appeared so
perfectly in the mirror this morning, which has already
landed (for real!?) in London, or Singapore, or Korea by
now, far from the crusade of the phantom battalion forced
by the mixture of the sour vapor and crimson cracks that
tore poor Humpty so severely that all the kings horses and
all the kings men could never put it back together again.  All
the pieces of the puzzle mystically sticking incongruently, their
open mouths out of which gaped each odd-shaped tongue attempt-
ing to lock them together forever.  Everything about this odd head
so very real until it was covered in the mist of the piping hot
water, rose like a big translucent balloon with a head in it, and
dissipated without even a pop over the reaches of the mirror,
into a warm melt of nothingness which floated by the school
of poetry in the south of this land at the other end of the cont-
intent, through all of the gibberish of English residue.  To a
place where no war had even been seen.  What a fantastical
world this place where the language was so foreign and the
English residue of of jibberish kept whispering, as if taunting
those who live there every day, except when they traveled 
to show up in long-away mirrors.  Only the taunts no longer
affected these beautiful inhabitants, was only a sussuration
that swept the countryside, affecting no one but perhaps the
occasional tourist.  The fantastical land had given over to an
amorality with crippling sharks that circled angrily in every 
pond that was nearly deep enough; with sultans to the south
having never traveled far enough north to even see this aged
empire, and just above the border to the north of the empire
of heads that showed up in mirrors half-way across the planet,
there were caverns and caverns filled with gold.  none of the
inhabitants of the land of sussuration had seen any of this gold,
but wandered their fields of rice daydreaming of the green of
currency that grows the greenest.  The longer the afternoon,
the greener their alcoholic dreams of recurrence.  Until without
one of the inhabitants of the empire lifting its head, the country
grew full of the people who lived in the north with the hundreds
of caves full of gold, and even further north than that.  They app-
eared from nowhere with handwritten bills suggesting the gold
existed ad could be traded for anything, including ever parcel of
the land of the empire between the sultans and the golden caverns.
Soon the land belonged to the northerners, but for no reason than
there were piles of papers drawn suggestive of the gold, which
at first pleased the inhabitants and quenched the thirst that had
developed by the breeze of the constant sussuration of the gib-
berish of the English residue.  The northerners had devised a plan
to trade every parcel of land for a piece of their paper suggestive
of the gold in the caves near where they had formerly lived, the
land now hollow and hard to walk upon.  It was around then 
that the king of the empire of sussuration began to breath his
last breaths.  This was a kind who had seen no war, who had 
lived longer than any other king, and whose name was longer
than anyone could know except those who lived in the land
of sussuration.  Each inhabitant began to call the king by his
name, and before anyone could finish that name, his royal
namesake was gone.  The inhabitants soon discovered that
their land had been taken from them in bits and pieces until
they had none left to themselves, by the northerners and their
pieces of paper which suggested gold, all without their ex-
press consent or knowledge, and why not?  They were busy.
They were happy.  They were automatons.  They men gamb-
led away their weekends in ways Las Vegas would ridicule.
Their wives, still almost believed property, took on the aura
of the current and future Stepford Wives of other empires who
soon found their demise among gadgets and electronic circuits
while their husbands spent long weekends gambling.  What
else was their to do, they thought.  The dreams of the fathers
and the dreams of the mothers became the green dreams of 
beaten skepticism and so on, and so on, and so on, ad infin-
itum, while the children played in the fields of rice or in the
ponds full of sharks, never knowing any better.  The king-
dom was demoted to a land of open arms attached to wide
smiling and welcoming faces to arms up-raised in fear, which
made their mouths tremble uncontrollably, through which
they would speak, in succor or in solace, the dead language
that rose above the tourists ears, who would come season
after season to the same destination, and whose papers
filled with the suggestion of gold, mixed with the currency
that grew the greenest would go directly to the new rulers
of the land, unbeknownst to the tourists, whose lips smacked
of alcoholic coffee beverages and ganja leaves..  They would
each arrive at the same destinations as last season, and the
season before that, never knowing the difference.

Sunday, January 19, 2020


(getting the hell out)

At first, it was Canada,
one infinite NPR station.
There were several ex-
cursions into Canada.
The one we didn’t take
as a family of six in the
tan Leisure Van (Ford,
of course) because Dad
wouldn’t part ways
with his fancy gun (Oh,
Canada, you have such
chest-warming nostalgia!).
This at Niagara Falls, which
was a little embarrassing
and would have been my
first venture into another
country, 1973.  When in
graduate school in 1991-
1992 at Bowling Green,
Ohio, there were all those
invitations to Windsor,
just through Detroit,
where, oddly, my Dad
had grown up (Uncles
Earl and Dale, his two
living siblings, still lived
there) — for, yes,
the male strippers, who
got very naked, and even
(ahem) performed erect,
it was said.  I passed on
each of the invitations
as it didn’t sound like
my kind of party.  And then
I fell for a francophone from
Ann Arbor, with whom we
took at least a couple of trips
to Quebec.  Montreal, to be
precise.  And then I learned
the true riches of Canada.
The guys in Montreal were
gods.  And so every trip to
this city in which one could
almost feel as if one were
in a strange land, what with
the smattering of French
spoken alongside English,
and the outrageously gor-
geous men who were also
seemingly the most friendly
men on the planet (probably
because of the direction my
libido kept taking me - strip
clubs and sex clubs - where
friendly made money, per-
haps even from a tiny bit
from me).  A few years
later I would take two
excursions back by
myself. It never seemed
to have the cache it had
on that first trip. Although,
I did once stop at Windsor,
just to find the famed strip-
club there, and this trip,
with a boyfriend.   There
we sat at a sort of rec-
tangular boardroom table,
lined round in our executive
chairs, as the men came out
using the outskirts of the table
like a runway, grazing our very
mouths as they passed us by.
It was there that I fell briefly
in love with a rather well-
endowed Native American
who must have found me
an easy target from the
get-go.  Needless to say,
the boyfriend did not
see a need to stay for
the second show, much
to my chagrin.  Years
later there was the train-
ride to Vancouver.  Which
actually ceased being
a train ride once we reached
Canada.  Another boyfriend,
our first anniversary, and as
I had just spent my first five
years or so in San Francisco,
what a pleasure it was to get
a bit of a snowstorm our first
couple of nights there.  Once
again, the men were quite
pleasing to the eyes, but  I
was less interested in them
than in adventure.  I was
in the middle of the begin-
ning of a romance that I
would have never known
would later grow so intract-
able that, thanks to it (to
him), I would lose pretty
much everything.  Soon,
I would escape the country
for much more foreign des-
tinations.  But for many de-
cades, Canada was my one
foreign destination.  It was
for a long time the one place
I would GTHO.  Which seems
appropriate.  I had forgotten
its significance with regard to
the multiple excursions I made
or almost made to the country
of our northern neighbors.  So
I shall leave for another time
such adventures as the Gay
Cruise to Mexico, and the
Trip to Hong Kong (solo),
turning 40 in Paris, the trip
to Tokyo (also, solo), the
time I took someone to
Italy as a graduation pre-
sent, but found it to be
my favorite place in the
world.  Oh, and of course
the gay cruise upon the
Baltic (with stops in Russia,
Estonia, Oslo, Stockholm,
Amsterdam, as well as my
first and only cross-Europe
train ride).  Another day.
For now, I shall hope for
more such adventures.
Too many to even write
of.  And other fantastical
wishes and dreams, which,
you never know..............

Tuesday, January 14, 2020


slipping into
and out of
ness never
did any good
for anybody.

go home,
drink a
pylon the
fish tank
and pile
on the
es.  wet

days inter-
with hot
for we’re
on the verge

of ev’ry-
perch on
the lurch. 
it’s time
for a


Monday, January 13, 2020



real time
isn’t really
real, said
the scary
bear to
the jewel-
ly mule.

Saturday, January 11, 2020


If There’s Boobs In It

Then you
know he’ll
be there on
opening night.

Thursday, January 09, 2020


what you see,

is (of 
most def-
initely not
what is

what you
read and 
hear do
not jive
with the

flung about
by the arms
to which are
the mouth 
that wrote 
you only 
just read, 
or spoke
the non-
you what-
ever heard.

uh uh.

we all 
even know-
ing why (& 
by my guess-
timation, of-
tener with-
out any 
at all; or so
it appears to
this idiot).

(and yes,
that’d be
me, the id-
iot who nar-
rows down his
options via
the loons.)

If you + me = us
then you are seem-
ingly oblivious.

you - me = words
like these; “so obvious-
ly seamless,“
it seemingly struck
the seamstress'
mistress.  “and
it was so,”

the spider
ing either 
your fuzz-
iest zither 
or your

but if there is
an us, there has
definitely got 
to be a fetish 
for that.

and if it were
mine, man...
it’d be ever 
such a goldmine.

Wednesday, January 08, 2020



king lime
our fortitude
across the 
what she on?
a teer
the 1
ing frm
my eye
so impul
I’d say I’s
but it’s ais.
calm e.
u prob-
find any-
one more

Tuesday, January 07, 2020


menltle disease 
keybored msg


I funf
a pce
of the
(& ths
iz a pom
& I’m
Nw I a
A whit

Sunday, January 05, 2020


Affordability in the Middle East

Decaying City Leads 
to Apocalypse was 
nearly today’s head-
line.  No, wait, here
it is.  Homeless in the 
Golden State cause
World War III.  Hoo
hah.  Fake HUD re-
port razes homes for
homelessness.  But
where to really begin?
Per capita, our freshly
dead year’s homeless
rates are higher in NY,
HI, and DC than in CA.
Truth hurts.  My sore
thumb!  My eye!  My
my!  My oh my!  Sulu
fights Kirk with a sword.
It is in a place called
the starship Utopia
where Groucho, Zeppo,
and Hippo are all born
(same day, actually).
“You’re not having
a heartattack ack ack
ack,” he says to
me, quoting Colonel 
Sanders, “you’re 
just having fun with
the facts.  To
which I respond with
a gasp and a wheeze 
(sarcastically).  All 
the while, King Duck
(birth name: Little Birdie 
Cries Wolf) opens back 
door, gauging the equa-
tion, mocking the eleph-
ant (the pink one who
sleeps in the room the
shape of a giant egg),
thinks the buskers
are baristas, that
sort of thing.  Oh,
my aching egg-
head, I literally
hear the actual
headline whine
to me with a sigh
(I’ll wager the 
Lincoln Bedroom is 
wishing right now 
that it were high).
Skull sucks,
say the kids
as they arrive
from school
w/o element;
no substance),
imaginary text-
books in pocket.
Such textuality,
tweets Professor
Fonda to all the
sixteen-year old
girls, beheadedly.
My oh my, indeed,
thinks the world,
wordlessly, watch-
ing the acclaimed
new biopic: My Oh 

Saturday, January 04, 2020



hey, did you
catch the
remake of
“thus spake 
in which there’s 
a sample of 
me shaking 
my chins to 
the tune of 
toni basel’s
one hit wonder?
oh, ricky!
you’re so
fine.  you’re 
so fine you
blow my 
mind. and
me?  why 
i’m just a 
of blubber.

Friday, January 03, 2020



     I will

     I will
       —something that i wrote over 20 years ago and put into a poem

as un

as i
to wr
ite 1
i never
took the
nity to
it hap
n if
a bit
too late
for the
now that
today is
now yes
out to
be a
just to
this ou
t there,
is it ju
st me?
do ya
i gue
ss may
be al
y can
ly ans
wer su
ch a qu
and yet
these se
em to be
my favo
rite kinds
of quest
ions to
ask. the
ble ones.
day fr
om to
ya know?
*which is
just a fan
cy way of
saying any
way, right?
:-) g’bless
& g’speed.

     Creeping out of a fog
     Lifting as I swallow
       —something that i wrote over 20 years ago and put into a poem

Wednesday, January 01, 2020


Words follow heartbeats, arrogant and slow...
                                          —Jack Spicer

On this gorgeous-

ly dim-lit first day
of a decade, I place

myself upon an eld-

er tiny couch that has
under me a tartan mat-

erial (covering what, I

do not know) and these
must be kitchen dish-

drying towels that lay

upon each armrest. Up-
on the left armrest my 

left arm rests as I scribble 

this, for some perspective
or for resolution, I suppose.

But what is ever actually

resolved, anyway?  Is any-
thing finished, any promise 

ever completed?  The only 

load of laundry that I can
afford to wash whirls peace-

fully and hypnotically around

and around in the $4.45 wash-
er.  I am watching it (as usual) 

more sucked in than teevee until 

I either am hypnotized or asleep.
I dream the dream of restless wet

clothes anxiously awaiting the

glorious release of moisture that 
welcomes each piece into cleanli-

ness.  It is not so good when so

exhausted to dream either rest-
lessly or anxiously, I would say.  

“Please wake me up when the load

is done washing,”  I deign to demand
of my dream.  The dream wakes up to 

transfer the laundry from the finished

washer to the dryer (and puts in the
generally sufficient $1.25).  To never

leave the ancient couch with its

seats covered with a tartan mater-
ial is my New Year’s resolution.

Next year I will take my clean items

out of the dryer, which is an even
bigger television.  But I am already

in a hypnotized or dream-state and

now know what this coming year
is asking of me.  It has asked that 

my resolution be another year of 

complacency (“Complacency!?”
I exclaim to the year,  “Like the year

before and the year before that?  

Like the past 6 years or perhaps
even the previous entire decade?

I am screaming this).  Then, mir-

aculously (to me) I make my way 
off of the couch and stand there 

for a moment, a bit wobbly, mumb-

ling to the year that it is just going
to have to see about that.  “I’ll

find myself a new anniversary, that’s 
what I’ll do!” I tell the year.  
I transfer the items of laundry like

bills of currency from the washer

to the dryer, unaware of why I am
so agitated and confused, but care-

ful not to watch the clothes in the

dryer, lest I be drawn into their 
dark arts, hypnotized by the vortex

of their colorful swirl.  As my laun-

dry dries, I remember the litany (or
prayer?) I have come to say each

night of late (oh, the places at which
I have resided!).  And then I find myself 
in my cozy apartment. The confusion blows 

over except for wondering vaguely why 
I keep crossing over the threshold into my 
place with two tow-bags full of my clothes 

and some of my linens (but, oh, they 
smell so clean!); into a place I have
lived for nearly a year, but where I 

have yet to awaken with the memory 
of even a tiny scene of any dream.
Not even a hint of one.  Unlike any place

at which I have resided, I do not spend
the duration of day racking my brain to 
remember the teensiest tidbit of what

transpired the night before.  Not a clue
in my head; not a hint of emotion.  I
never sense a clue.  Suddenly, I have

the startling sensation of being a
guest sleeping in a stranger’s room.
I come to my senses at a moderate pace,

and begin my nightly “prayer” — I bow my
head upon my semi-strange bed and speak the 
address of each place I have resided since

childhood and think momentarily of the bed (or 
beds) I slept upon at each address and with
whom I slept at each (which takes considerable

memory and time). This comforts and even pleases
me as I proudly place each of my newly clean pos-
sessions into its proper drawer in its newest home.