mmmmmcv

Biding Time

There’s nothing worse.  And I do it well.

Halting everything, including the movement

of time until I’m to a particular goal that must

be achieved before I can even move.  Like stalling

until a paycheck arrives in my hands and is cashed,

when there’s no cash on hand, won’t be for weeks,

and no bank will even have you as a customer.

That’s what I’d call biding time with a lot of

unknowns, which creates an even more intense

inability to move, to literally move, much less

make any necessary arrangements that might

make things go smoothly and more quickly

once the check is in hand, or even before.

It’s just a stasis.  You’re a mannequin

living alone.  Immobile.  Asexual.

Unable to leave the apartment,

even refusing to get out of bed

unless you have to pee.  There’s

nothing to eat, a life event that,

taken by itself, would insist upon

such a stasis, but is usually, of

course, accompanied by a few others,

like, once again, the lack of cash, of any

credit, of anyplace to get a meal.  Or it’s

stsifling hot, you’ve nothing to stir the air in 

whatever place you are lucky enough to be existing,

and it is humid, and the forecast says this will

transpire for a duration.  Or it’s pouring

sheets of rain, for days, say, and you’ve

no umbrella or anything with which to

protect yourself from the onslaught.  Or

you’ve bummed up your knee by trying to

clean the dead cockroaches off the top of your

closet in your tiny apartment, hopping up upon the

sink to do so (you’ve no bathroom, no stove, just a sink

and a closet and a bed and maybe a desk), and you turn yourself

in just such a way that you fall in a twist or a split second before

intended and hit the floor and there’s such a sharp pain you are

sure that you’ve broken your leg, but it’s just a sprain, yet you

can’t walk up or downstairs or even upon a sidewalk without a whole

lot of trouble, hopping on one foot, stopping to rest every chance 

you get, so why bother?  Or if you are ill or recovering from surgery, say, 

or have a case of Covid that you are pretty sure you will live through – 

only that doesn’t belong in this category because it’s the kind of 

rest that feels deserved, that feels right, even good, no matter how 

much congestion or fever you have, and so there’s no guilt to 

accumulate just for staying in bed for a week. Or two.  And then 

there’s depression, simple, easy to ascertain, you’re down, 

and you’re going to stay down until you’re not, which will not

likely be—and we might as well say we’ve gotten to the root of it all,

the root of all evil, even—until you get your next paycheck, it simply

cannot be helped (and sometimes you’re unsure of the general timeframe

when the money will even arrive, that check may not even be an assured

thing, and if that is the case, one must avoid the stasis if one has the 

will-power to do so, because there are urgent matters that require

movement, a plan to procure some cash, so if you have not resigned into

it, biding must be avoided until money can be definitively and with 

confidence expected)—so let’s say, rather, that you expect some 

promised or earned money will arrive on some assured date—at a time

at which one can be as sure as is possible about such things—and so it is

coming in a week, two weeks, a month, then, what is there to do but

bend time, to force yourself into that timeless stasis that mostly involves

sleep, or staring at walls until you are able to sleep for as long as is

humanly possible, or mindlessly playing games on an electronic device,

should you have a working one, and you do this until the day arrives 

when you get that cash, until you recover from that surgery or that 

bum knee become operational without too much extra assistance, 

it is then that you can, at least for the length it takes you to 

find yourself in another similar predicament, snap out of it, 

you can find a bit of contentment and perhaps even happiness,

some focus, you can remain alert enough to get things accomplished, 

you can stay awake, be okay, at least for now.  The time will surely come

soon enough when you must transport yourself once again into your

time-bending stasis, when you must, until some specific moment

in a future that if you have enough determination you can bring 

that moment closer much faster by, as they say, biding your time.

mmmmmciv

A Hot Shave and a Frozen Candy Cane

Does anyone know the real story

of Ol’ Saint Nick?  No?  Well, I

just happen to know someone

who knows someone who is

pretty good friends with Prancer.

Prancer the famous reindeer.  And

it turns out that our dear Santa only 

lived to the ripe old age of a hundred

and eighty-seven. Yep, the story goes

that after decades of dealing with

that itchy, scratchy, rash-inducing

beard, jolly and warm-hearted

as he from whom it billowed must

have been, Mrs. Claus had

had enough of it one year, and

asked Nick if he’d be so kind as

to get rid of that long and

scraggly beard. And so one

early winter, Santa reluctantly

trekked over to the only barbershop

on the North Pole and nervously

asked not just for a trim, nope,

but he wanted a warm shave

and an above the shoulders

haircut.  Well, from here

the story gets a bit sketchy.

Some claim that the one local

barber never got much business,

and therefore hadn’t had much

practice. nOthers go further, say

it was not so innocent at all, claim

the barber was a disgruntled elf, who 

for decades had worked a conveyor

belt in the world-famous toy

factory.  To cut to the quick,

so to speak, the coroner’s

report (and yes, while there

aren’t many deaths in the

North Pole, there is a lone

coroner, as well) reads,

quite simply, “Cause of

Death: Freak Shaving

Accident.”  The big man

bled to death on a barber’s

chair.  At least according to

the coroner.  But I happen

to know that Mrs. Claus

had a thing for a certain

monstrosity of a snowman.

And do you know who, for

the past several centuries

now, has driven that sleigh,

directing those famous

reindeer and magically

dipping himself (without

melting somehow) into

chimneys worldwide to

deliver all of those annual

gifts (and a modicum of

coal chunks) to all the boys

and girls? You guessed it,

the Abominable Snowman,

himself.  And I am also told

on authority that the old lady 

wore white so bright to her 

dead husband’s funeral

that the elves could barely

make her out, what with the 

swirling snow and ice.  And that 

to this very day, she has a

certain lighthearted swagger

for a woman of her age.  Oh,

she still smells of cinnamon, sure,

but while before the death of

her long-espoused Christmas

hero, she’d been a bitter woman

with a salty tongue who’d been

in trouble more than a few times

for harassing those factory elves. 

Yet nowadays, word has it, she

manages never to publicly loosen 

the overly perky grin that runs 

between those rosy circles upon '

her jowls, and she’s got a light-

hearted pep in her step that 

many call a swagger, and that

more than just a few of the

few citizes of the North Pole

are extra cautious when she’s

in their vicinity.  Indeed, no 

small number of them have ever

believed that it was a freak

shaving incident after all

that brought about the 

demise of Santa Claus.

And if you think this just

conspiracy, then when 

was the last time you've

heard of a glass of milk

being emptied overnight

on Christmas Eve.  The

Snow Monster is allergic.

Oh, he eats the cookies,

but never takes a sip,

even just to down an

extra dry gingersnap.

And if you look at any

of the letters he writes

to the hundreds of

thousands of kids (and

a bunch of their parents

as well, given that he 

answers every single

piece of mail that comes

his way, just like the jolly

old man did), you will find

the ink smudged almost 

to ineligability, as if it were

written by a sobbing lover

or a distraught mother.

Anyway, so now you know.

But do not tell a soul who

you heard it from, okay?

mmmmmciii

Take My Xanax, Please!

Do I, the socially awkward
extrovert, have an aversion
to extroversion?  I have the
answer to everything, but

how often is it the correct
answer?  Who’s to know?
Isn’t that a terrific problem
(terrific as in terrible and

horrific)?  I think the majority
of the folks with whom I’ve
had relationships have solidly
been introverts.  And while

it can sometimes be annoying,
I do well with gregarious, ex
troverted friendships, not that
I haven’t had my fair share of

pals that aren’t people people.
I’ve often grappled with the
fact that I’m a true-to-type
Gemini who’s pretty high on

the people person scale and
yet can be incredibly socially
awkward.  Grappled how?
Mostly, if I’m honest, I’ve

simply joked about this see
ming paradox, which I do
believe is quite integral to
who I am. I n other words,

a large percentage of my
life comes from the knots
that these facts get me tied
into on a regular basis.  Which

brings me to the double gut-
punch that, at least within me,
are both my anthema and
my yin and yang: anxiety.

Which is no joking matter
(Take my Xanax, please!) –
(I’m kidding, I have none, as
local medical professionals,

and presumably many not-
so-local, called that off for
folks without real insurance
when the opioid fiasco led

soon thereafter to a national
fentanyl crisis.) (Which I get,
in theory, but at the same
time find it utterly elitist,

another devastating symptom
of the widening gap between
the classes here in our devolving
country.)  There, I’ve said my

piece, as it turns out.  Not my
original intent here, and that
the nitty-gritty is kept within
the confines of parentheses

is metaphorically appropriate.
Except for the fact that I make
a point that whenever I have
any sort of medical or mental

consultation, I always, and as
level-headed as I can force

myself to muster, bring up

this fact, that I think of this

as a hideous inequity, given

that Xanax so profoundly

helped me be the person

I had with no conviction

whatsoever, believe myself

to be.  Which no doubt does

the opposite of making a

difference, when it comes

to me ever getting such a

panacea ever again.  So,

do I make any difference

in the grand scheme when

it comes to equality or in

reducing the curel gap

that exists between the

haves and us have nots.

mmmmmcii

Blow the Poem into Baloney

The chief scientist on board was
convinced that it would be a worth
while experiment. At times he
would think that, aside from

those that come with a risk of exp
iration, most any experiment is a
worthwhile one. But, sun of a gun,
this particular experiment came with

an extinction risk of which he remained
until the soggy end unawares. Baloney,
as it turns out, blows. Not only in the
exploding sense, but in the toxic sense,

in the Biblical sense, and even in that
risk of migrating plastics eventually
residing within the testicles sense,
whether it’s ingested, blown onto, or,

as was the case for those on the ship’s
deck, radically blown up. Fortunately
for the sake of neighbors and other
lucky landlocked acquaintances, of

the family members left on the home
front, the chief at least had the sense
to perform the experiment asea. He
thought his senses were steady, but

clearly he had begun experiencing
signs of brain-rot, perhaps brought
about by some of his earlier baloney
experiments. Most curious about this

experiment was what happened to
the men who worked belowdecks.
There was a serious misunderstanding
of some sort, or else the chief’s dementia

had been virulently contagious. For
each of the coal shovelers and the rest
of the generic belowdecks seamen,
before the baloney blow-up, were

cradling an infant-sized loaf of baloney,
rocking it back and forth, with some
blowing kisses toward the tips of
each of the baloney babies’ imaginary

noses. Some of the men who blew too
close found those noses quite tasty, but
refused to season them, choosing instead
to make baby noises. Before the ship

sunk, each had laid down their baby-
length unsliced body of baloney and
had pinned a diaper around the baby’s
meaty middle, or wherever each man

decided it was where its diaper should
be. The assistant to the head of the
blown up baloney incident had been
going around and taking notes, asking

each man cradling a baby-length baloney
belowdecks the sex of its child, despite
it being comprised of a few pounds of
cheap, non-sentient, unalive, soon to be

sinking meats from various portions
of various animals. As the ship
swooped about making its way to
ward the ocean’s bottom, the men

seemed rather astounded that their
babies seemed unaffected by the car
eening and the onslaught of incoming
sea-water. Until each man drowned,

he was cradling his baby made of
baloney as gently as if it had been
his firstborn son or daughter. When
word made it to the CEO of Science,

the Baloney chief scientist’s boss, that
the experiment had been the catalyst
of such a horrendous event, he wrote
a brief suicide note and jumped from his

office window. Ironically, for lunch that
day, he had eaten the most delicious fried
baloney sandwich that his wife had sent
with him to work as he left that morning.

mmmmmci

Toxic Positivity

If I told you where I heard this phrase
for the very first time, just two days ago,
it might say a bit too much about why I’d
until then never heard it.  It doesn’t matter

where I heard it.  Maybe, at least for the
purpose of my current meanderings, it doesn’t
even matter what it actually means. It caused
a bit of a pang in the vicinity of my heart when

I heard it articulated, as well as, I’m sure, a
not-so-subtle eyeroll that was surely noticed
by some of the folks around the table at which
I was sitting.  All I could think at that moment

was, What a tediously cynical world in which, in
order not to be deleterious to those around us,
we are now each expected to be pessimists!

mmmmmc

“Loin Voids”

I couldn’t understand what he was
getting at.  Was he mentally displaced,
or an alien from outer space, or an app
arition that only I could see?  And what

was I hearing him say?  Loin voids?  That
sounded suggestive in an asexual sort of
way.  So of course I was intrigued and
looked around to see if I was the only

one catching this.  It wasn’t a busy time
of day, there were a few tourists, since
it was a time when most locals would
be working in offices in the Financial

District, where we had our encounter.
And then I noticed that I had been
paying so much attention to this,
whatever he or they or it was, I mean,

one doesn’t go around dressed in a
polka-dotted suit, with the dots being
seemingly every color on the palette—
dotted upon white—and NOT get noticed.  I 

looked down, I wasn’t dressed for work or 

anything, I was on one of my elongated non-

working periods, you know, the ones that got 

me here typing this story up to you with such

faux urgency?  I was wearing sneakers,
the most expensive pair of shoes I’d
ever worn, to the best of my knowledge,
picked them up the weekend previous at

some swank new hipster haven, it was
on Fillmore, as I recall?  So, expensive
sneaks.  “Loin voids!”  I felt like I was
doing research, but then, as I said, I

looked down, somewhere in the direction
of my own voided loins, but what my eyes
landed on cranked up within me a sort of
exasperation, and anger, and who was the

first...thing...upon which I’d take out this

anger?  My new friend of hollowed out sex. 

I’d just decided he wasn’t a figment of my
imagination but rather one of those Frisco

freaks who walk around at all hours relaying
to whomever will listen about something terribly
bad was about to happen.  And soon.  An alien 

invasion.  The next best earthquake.  That Jesus 

was here and would soon be floating home with 

his flock, and he’d be grinning and winking at

all of those of us who were left behind.  Some
such tale of twisted baloney.  And they were

the only ones here to give us a fair warning. 

As I said, while looking down, I glossed over my 

sexless middle section and noticed that my precious

new sneakers had sunk into wet concrete, up 

to well above the iconography on the canvas

or hide to the level with the laced portion of 

my shoelaces.  I let out a very feminine

yelp, or it could have been a full-fledged

girlie scream, trying to articulate the pain
I was feeling with words that would have
meant My Brand New Fucking Shoes!, but
me being me it came out more like I, Mandy,

Stuck in Poo!  And this of course was directed
at the San Francisco freak because I was
already blaming him for my somehow not
knowing I had passed a “Sidewalk not in

use” sign, as well as a, “Please cross here,”
as in to the other side of the small Financial
District alleyway the two of us were traversing,
or had been only moments before my shoes

got stuck in hardening concrete.  And after I
yelled whatever indecipherable nonsense I
had yelled at mister voided loins he patiently
gave me a look of dismay as if I had excusable

personal issues or something and said again
what he had already repeated maybe three
times at this point: “Hey mister! I said maybe
you should pay attention, learn words, can’t

you read?  That sidewalk’s been closed all week.
He was gone before I could apologize.  Or
before I had the wherewithal to do so.  And
I stood there long enough that I had to slip

my feet out of my new sneakers and walk
home sock-footed, all the way up the hill,
had blisters for weeks, all the while thinking
about what a Loin Void might be, if it would

have been something said, if those had actually
been the words directed by me by the Frisco
Freak who tried to save me and my sneakers
from the fresh concrete from across an alley,

as I failed to focus on what he was saying
in actuality when we crossed paths.  I kept
imagining that he’d always said what I thought
for sure I heard him say, that weird little pair

of words (he had to be from New York City, surely)
that kept me from paying attention to where I
was going and upon what my new shoes had
stepped upon and into.  Which is the story of my

life in a nutshell, I suppose.  Always too engaged
with my surroundings to pay attention to myself.
Always blaming others for my stupid booboos.  It’s
an expensive and an embarrassing problem, to say

the least, and one I’m sure I’ll take to my grave.  I’m

no comedian, but it just goes to show that sometimes 

nailing the punch line is a bitch, am I right?  But hell, how

would I ever know, having never been much of a comic?

mmmmmxcix

Emblematic

What this elicits is the
bleakest day leading to
one night’s emblematic
elation.  I only represent

the villain in this dramatic
conclusion, but I am not
evil.  No bad guy, me.  Him,
he bad.  Did you hear who

said what?  Who noticed the
character folding into a death
star?  Do these things always
require a catalyst?  One day

good, the next bad?  I must be

the villain.  I was never any good.

mmmmmxcviii

Diminutive Derivative 

I suppose one way to put it might be

that I’m quite financially unsolvable. 

Unresolvable?  Unresolved?  I used

to invest, almost in an unbeknownst

fashion, we called it 401(k).  Or that

might have been a brand for a pair

of pants that, when I was much more

financially solvable, I used to wear on

occasion.  I’m a hard fit, my legs a tad

too short for most standardized fits.  But

at least I’m in the States rather than in

Europe, where everyone is apparently

a teeny weenie skinny-Minnie.  I could

take a normal too-long pair up a few inches,

it’s true.  I had an internship during the

year I earned my last degree in which

I taught young students interested in

the dramatic arts how to sew, then we

built costumes at shop before each play.

Oh, and then I managed the house during each

theatrical performance, also an internship.  And 

in the various theatres we had on my grad

school campus that year there were no less

than 10 full-fledge theatrical productions.

Like most years of my life, that was quite a

busy year, and (also, like a lot of my years) 

income was incredibly sparse, despite three 

internships (the third was assisting a campus drug 

and alcohol rehab counselor), and on top of all

of that, I gave 20-30 hours per week working 

at the local Big Lots.  So I’m a bit short, but

if push cames to shove, I have the wherewithal

to take a pair of jeans or slacks up to my twenty-nine

inches (or so) inseam, should there not be any of 

what I supposed are abnormal sizes available.  

So, I have a twenty-nine inches (or so) inseam

and it’s usually hard to find anything less than

a 30 inseam on store shelves.  Some jeans have sizes 

with inseams shorter than 30, like Levi’s, which I 

know, because I grew up wearing 501s.  Ah, no

wonder the subject got off course when I

mentioned I once had a 501(k).  Not being

employed at the moment, and having long

ago gotten rid of my 401(k) money (it went

during the decade of destitution that I am still 

riding out just as penniless as ever), not only do I

owe taxes (at least to the state of California

now) with no income in over a year and a half at

present, but I owe various small credit cards that I had

used to build up my credit ever since I could afford

to when card companies began to give me a little credit

once again after the financial swamp i found myself in

a few years back.  This is a game that isn’t fun, so let’s 

change the subject.  I’m a non-solvent human looking for a job,

having just days ago turned 59 years old.  Which sounds

like a practically unsolvable logic problem, especially if I

were to continue to add on pieces and parts of my

issues at hand.  My ongoing problems.  The downright

tragedies that have kept me from my betrothed.  My 

betrothed.  I do have one of those, and I’m quite rightly 

giddy about the notion.  One obstacle that keeps us apart

physically is that he resides in the Southern Hemisphere 

while I live in the northern half of the planet. and while we’ve

taken care of the papework to get him here we’ve been unable

to pay for said paperwork, the visa that would have him here

and ready to marry me within 90 days upon his arrival (some

twelve or so month, estimated, upon turning in the paperwork

and fee).  Also, even though we talk every day, often several times 

live, and chat intermittently otherwise, in order to procure this visa

so that he can come here I was required to actually and physically

visit with him in real life before we could even think about turning

in the paperwork.  So that I have done, saving up to head to the

Southern half of the planet a year ago March, which was quite an

expense, lovely as it was to finally spend time with him in the same

physical space for a couple of weeks.  It’s been six and a half years that 

we have been thusly betrothed, which is quite a long long-distance

relationship, and that is a notion that I used to make fun of, say, 

when friends of mine got such distanced partnerships of romantic 

and/or committed and/or sexual natures (those seem to be 

the top three characteristics to have if you play a part in such a thing.

I mean, sure, you can have one, you can have a couple of these, but to 

find someone in which you are able to work out all three seems to me 

the very ideal, something that lets you know it might really be worth 

working on, something to keep going, to which you commit.  And I’ve 

not exactly been wise with commitments, but I’ve had a lot of them.

They have had durations from three months to 10 years or so, all

told, which means I have what they call experience.  Somewhat 

similarly, if one were to look at my resume, the one I use to gain

employment, one would see that I have a nice and lengthy set of

experiences in a career that, while I happenstanced into rather

unexpectedy, it is one with which I have been quite happy.   One

would think that things might, considering a pretty decent amount

of experience with each, be able to procure both reliable and purposeful

employment alongside a lovely personal relationship, a family plus career

situation in which one could contentedly spend a lifetime.  But as if this 

writing, and several years of working quite intensely to get at least a good 

part of what I once felt I had going or me, that is not my place, as I

was dealt a ridiculously cowardly break-up from someone with whom I’d 

lived and loved, as boyfriend, partner, romantic and otherwise.  Yes, 

this supposedly aware individual (me) was in love, in a nicely intimate 

commitment, for ten years, until this guy I thought I knew extremely well

hoodwinked me into dealing with his all but actual death, the death of

a longstanding partner.  One day, with no warning, some 11 years or so,

after a fated first encounter, he was gone.  And he left to marry someone 

for whon he’d apparently been hot with whom he had somehow managed

to spend enough time with this guy during around 80% of the duration of 

time that we were together in a supposed committed relationship to skip

town without a word, leaving me with the place that was ours and most

of his belongings, our belongs, to be with him, and no word to me at all.  

This all sounds pretty normal, I suppose, perhaps even down to the extreme

cowardice he displayed by leaving me to grieve like he had literally died,

was dead, is dead, to me.  It is a death that I didn’t even get to have in 

any literal way, he just left without a word before or since.  I had to

spend valuable (and very ill, thanks to this loss) time dealing with the fact that

not only was our relationship fraudulent, transpiring through what at the time

seemed and still feels like were the best years of my life, just to experience

his unexpected disappeaarance in that horrifying way.  In other words, I became

a widow.  He is my dead former spouse.  But the voices of dying spouses live on

in the ears and minds of those they’ve left behind.  Don’t they?  

This has been a meandering stack of information, one in which I have now

quite vulnerably relayed to you that, at 59 years of age, that is, at an age when

 most people begin to at least think in earnest of how  they will wind down, 

should they have such a luxury, I unfortunately, ever since this incident, have a

need, rather, to wind up.  And of getting the love I currently have who lives

on the other side of the world there to me.  Or to work with him to find a way to 

get us reasonably and contentedly together for a life that is real, or in a way

that is a better alternative to having a couple of videoconferences and

intermittent texts throughout the day.  To get the chance for regular and real

touch, living as the best way we can, with real intimacy, in the most 

meaningful ways.  Rather than having only two weeks out of six and a half

years in each other’s company, we can have all or most of a full year

in each other’s company.  Again, I am writing this as a means of relaying,

of understanding what I need by articulating myself.  I do this, perhaps among

other reasons, as means for me to understand myself, helping me gather 

motivation and the focus to move forward in appropriate ways.  All this by

casually letting you in on some of the things I find important in my story 

(why it’s important I do this, and whether this amounts to harrassment, by 

using you, should you, indeed exist, we can talk about some other time, but it

truly is a luxury, a benefit that I am able to do so).  That’s what is on my mind 

and why I have said what I say here on this rather long virtual page.  So I am

appreciative.  Of being  able to do this.  Of you being there (whether or not you 

actually are).  And of using this as a means, perhaps as one might a diary or a

therapist or writing a poem, to solidify a truth that leads to implementation of 

important actions that require establishing or editing goals.  For this, I thank

you.  Perhaps knowing a few things about me might be a good thing for you, 

I cannot say.  But passing along to you these tidbits of me certainly benefits

me.  It helps me best prepare for a hopeful and adventurous future and 

plays an integral part instilling within me (or helps me adjust) the goals that

are necessary to achieve and the motivation to do my part to make them

happen.  That’s a lot of help.  So please accept my most humble appreciation 

of your participation in what has been a vulnerable yet helpful exercise.

mmmmmxcvii

Punctual Procrastination

Like clockwork, Zeb conks out.
The whole crew proceed to veer
their heads over conveyor belts,
around electric pallets driven by

speedbots or other indeterminate

nimrods and others squint toward

just beneath the balcony’s leftmost 

stack of said pallets, (propping up 

the goods, these), and there he is, sure 

enough.  It’s two minutes to conk-time 

for Zeb, our man from Quality Control.
“How does everyone know, though?”

asks a very green engineer, who’s just
caught wind of Zeb’s condition (without
even knowing from which cog in which
wheel the old man’s home of imp-ment

spun).  “Oh, you catch on real quick with
Zeb,” someone was heard responding
to a third or fourth question that the
engineer has about this zonk-o conk-o

phenomenon.  “So guess what?  From
10:45 to about 3am, there isn’t a spare
tab of quality in this entire warehouse,” he 

helped contextualize.”  “You mean....”

the engineer began in a bit of a stutter.
“Yep, this place is one helluva blast for
around four hours every night.”  And
both the questioner and answerer let out

extended guffaws to that.  Only the engineer’s 

was more in that not at all certain what I’m 

laughing at zone while the answer man’s words 

came back in clipped cackles of utter confidence.

mmmmmxcvi

Riding the Soldiers of Romance

     I would like to beat someone with him
     but I can’t get him off my shoulders, he’s like evening.
                                                          —Frank O’Hara

People tell me I’m romantic.  But
I’m a logical guy.  It’s only when I 

happen to not be paying attention

for a little bit that I get caught up
in some affair.  They’re always sordid.
My unbroken rule is that each time that

tornado gets me, something so absurd
and with which I have no experience
gets added to each ride.  Which is surely

a hell created only for me.  I’d rather 

see myself spit-roasted and served to the

squadron to which I belong (or belonged;

death removes, remember?).  “How’d he
kick the bucket?”  “Trying to follow that
roadmap to LOVE, that’s how!”  My

brain hurts to remember how to explain

that last part to you.  Because of the
crime of which I’m accused (a

story, so sorry, that’s terribly true)....
Relieved of his hell, that slow act
of dying was to be his final curse,

or worse.  People, a lot of them,
thought him romantic.  Daily, he

could be heard relaying this aloud.

 

“It’s true, I swear, and this I’ve been 

told, at least once a day.”  At least up

until today.  Does that mean I’m dead?

mmmmmxcv

Mermen of Pressure

Oh, he meant pleasure.
Mermaid massages.
Oohses and Ahhses.
Merman in heat.  Gawd,

that would be neat.
Hair got a permanent.
[Intimate sperm interlude.]
Mormons being sinners, 

quick, what’s your pleasure?
Have you yet measured?
It can still pleasure.
Mars Bars or Mom sweets?

Psh!  Chocolate wuss dandies.
Don’t get so pushy, dear.
It is not the fear I’m afraid
of.  Mushrooms cause

fissures.  Yeah,
go figure.

mmmmmxciv

Those who don’t know history are doomed.
         —from the trailer for HBO’s Life, Larry and the Pursuit
            of Happiness: An Almost History of America (2026)

I see the trailer early this afternoon while I’m
frying up some vegetables and have put on a
pot of rice for lunch, all goodies from yesterday’s
trip to the weekly food pantry.  Cooking takes up

a lot of precious time, and I find myself relaying
this often.  Is it because I don’t like to cook, or
simply because I am lazy?  No, I think the reason 

is I’d rather be doing other things, like checking

off “to do” list items, making important phone calls
(why are there so many of these, they seem to
propagate exponentially as time goes) (and does
it ever go!), reading, writing, posting new pieces

to my 21-year-old online daily project (this one!).
Anyway, there’s not much else to say about that

opening line except that it resonates too well.  I’m 

tired of being didactic, of feeling a need to preach or

teach (it’d mostly be to the converted, anyway, given

the tiny ways I go about such things) (activism—
will I ever resign myself to at least acknowledging
that it’s a responsibility I do take rather seriously,

and one within which I choose not to explicitly operate,
certainly not in any traditional sense, except perhaps,

again, in these lines, which, as noted earlier, is preaching

to the converted, I suppose).  Did I quickly type it up just 

to remind myself of this, to nudge myself into trying
new ways to make a difference?  I suppose it is a bit
too obvious.  In that deceptively profound way.  But
it must not be obvious to everyone, if I am correct.  It is

to the folks in that category I should send such a reminder?

But if I am right, how would I reach any for whom that notion 

wouldn’t begin to register?  Would convincing be possible?  How 

the nastiness of political division and—dare I say it?—sheer 

and mandated ignorance have made it seem imperative 

that even I do something, anything, if a single thing can 

even be done about such a dilemma.  Surely something can

be done, there are surely many possibilities, but each avenue 

I can imagine in which I’d make a difference (like kindly and 

gently doing my best to encourage without coming across as if 

I’m proselytizing, as if I am preaching or teaching) would require 

devoting my life to the cause.  And how would I know that my

values are even the right ones?  I decided long ago against such a 

commitment to be a loudspeaker.  And so the values I find imperative

and the history that has me scattering them at times within thesse lines 

that are likely to be never seen by any of the multitude of individuals 

for whom such notions might assist persists.  So I keep doing as I 

do, all the while pondering how important it is go further, to find

at least a balance between devotion to a cause or two and my
otherwise hedonistic or artistic or financial tendencies.  So that

in the end have I taken down this little quote from a cute, perhaps
poignant new Larry David comdy coming out this year on television 
simply to verify that a cynic, a comedic celebrity, is doing more to make 

the world a better place than I ever will (even if on HBO), to remind 

me of my cowardice?  No.  It is something I already know.  As I also
know that I have perhaps made a tiny difference, if indeed my
basic ideas of morality and a pretty full lifetime intent upon educating 

myself and trying hard to maintain (what I determine in my little head) 

how I should be in order that I might make a difference and live a 

life I can be happy to have lived, doing my part— if that means 

anything.  But it will never be enough.  It’s never enough.  This 

afternoon I shall attempt to own that.  The hyperbolic corruption 

and immorality of this era, this backwards movement away from
progress, this nightmarish regress, something I’d never known
until recently in my short life of mostly impatiently but sometimes
gleefully enjoying living in a land of three steps forward and two

steps back—followed by three solid steps forward—this blessed

repetition has suddenly reversed course, seemingly ten-fold in speed.
I am a coward, it is true, and perhaps even moreso by saying it.  If you
exist, you no doubt already know this.  And for that I apologize, knowing

that act is but pouring fuel on the fire that is leading us back to the
Dark Ages, and I’m in goose-step with the masses, complicit in
our destruction.  Nothing I can say could possibly justify it.  And
yet I say it anyway.  Unless, of course, this gives me (or perhaps

an imaginary you) the gumption to help put on the brakes in
an attempt to reverse course.  About face!  I can hardly walk, much

less turn 180 degrees, barely able to breathe.  Enough excuses!  I’m  

old.  Perhaps an adventure would help me recapture my motivation,

regain some energy.  Who’s up for an adventure?  Oh, but it’s time 

for a nap.  Here in the isolation booth, I decide to sit motionless.  Is

that staying the course?  Does it alter a destination?  To lie in sleep and

dream with satisfaction that to do nothing is a ‘step’ in the right direction.

mmmmmxciii

Mood Movement
(the physics of hues)

The hours are blue.  A blue
that is beautiful, calms the
senses, loosens the tension
behind the eyes.  How are

you doing with the blues?
My mood fluctuates.  It
appears this is pretty
common among us.  So,

is there a color, a specific
hue—the shade of which is
just a sliver up the spectrum 

from heartbreak, and the smallest

nudge down that very same
spectrum from elation—that,
no matter what you’re feeling,
always (always) moves you,

even if just a little bit, in the
direction of a specific feeling?
You can disassociate that hue
from the feeling toward which

it moves you.  If you work at it.
That’s creativity.  But blues are
beautiful.  The blue.  Despair
lives in the same room as joy.

Find your thrills and screw with
them.  Be blue and purple.  And
orange.  Sing pinkly until you cry.

While doing it; and before and after.