cmlxix

I think I understand what he was
talking about – about the eyes. I said
‘burning’ and he shook his head,
but I think I get it. The long hours
of abuse. The unwillingness to
put on a pair of glasses, either of us.
Or better yet, shades. The eyes,
those pathways to the soul.
What corruption, what utter
turpitude we’ve unleashed
into the very guts of our brains
and the very moats of our hearts.

I might as well shrug my shoulders
and, oh what the heck, give my dick a
baloney sandwich and repair forthwith
to the basement to drool over an
Andromeda of jars filled with pickled
anatomy, choke out a joke or two
of prayer aimed at each suspended fetus
in lame hope that just one of them
might possess, loosely tethered
to its gelatinous spine, that very last,
oh so tiny figment of humanity I had
erstwhile proudly teased myself into
believing belonged to me, my singular
possession, to nourish and to cultivate
lovingly, to dote on its every whim,
only to throw it up at Starbucks
at half past nine this morning.

cmlxviii

Lovely that Shame decides to make an
extended appearance just as Self-Confidence
has finally and resolutely learned to subsist,
indeed thrive a bit, on its very own.  Is there
a massage therapist in the house?

Name one higher purpose than Ego.  Neither
another heart-blackening disappointment in
my One True Being nor the maudlin iteration
of my next crisis of faith will help me conjure
a retort to that one.  Whatever Magick
one deigns to practice is to be used
strictly for implementing
the most current upgrade of
one’s paragon set of smoke and mirrors
built neatly upon the myth of selflessness.
(And oh so stealthily at that!)

But I digress.  It is 9:20 on a brilliant
Saturday morning and maybe, just
maybe, I am rising from these most
recent depths.

And with what gravity!
I’ll exit this muck a sourpuss,
wipe the sewage off my boots
and ascend that imaginary plateau
(what a quick learn I am, too,
already hip to the sacred gospels
proving slope and altitude just a pair
of plucky post-coital legends) –
please be sure to watch carefully, now;
take as many notes as you must – because
I’ll do it all with as much ironic pleasure
as a well-burnished fart
presented gleefully adagio
at the butt-end of Thanksgiving Day.

cmlxvii

Caught in his porn-like grasp,
the pen loses all meaning. This
could be the furthest gone you’ve
come, like a steel drum forgetting
its last few thrummed notes, or a
first generation iPhone left in
a taxi-cab’s backseat crack.

Well, I just did it. I just
hunkered over, gave in,
sent the man one more
“we never had an us
but let’s grasp each
other to strangulation
so we can finally
have one” note.

Men. When did we start
calling them such. Start
calling him such. Either
I’m evolving or he’s
devolving.

I’m so sure of things. Certain
as ash in the craw of this pipe.
One split second leads to
another. I export each file
five different ways and listen
for the soft cough of the muse
as one after the next they
whistle a burn into the
recordable DVD, then
quietly slip the disc into its sleeve

and just as quickly forget why I’ve
spent eight years rewriting
this ridiculously innocuous
portion of Act I, Scene I.

cmlxvi

Markets Crater in Closing Minutes

It is almost 1960. Another
decade laid to rest or ruin.
Yes, another love poem
as we run out of time;
same cast of characters
(pretty much), same glib
narrator, same bistro after
another besotted Sunday
night. Then the goodbye
letter, which backfires,
just as they all have. Oh
how I wish you could enjoy
these last few carnal moments
with little old me. You know
better than anyone how I’ve
a soft spot for giddy doom
and gloom. What better
excuse for a party, no?

cmlxv

Poetry is drugs
don’t fight it
be hedonistic
it’s perfectly fine
to be high and
optimistic. Some
times. Finally,
a new life
with sushi on
Powell Street.
Turn the page
and here I am
with Fleetwood
Mac. Stephanie’s
coming over
this evening.
Which decade
is this? Ten
pounds in one
month, rather
sadly reading
diary entires
from when I
was ‘trying’
to get over
the last big
someone. Def
inite. Rep
etition. Then
home to Sepia
and email from
Kim who says,
“We’re going to
Mezzanine, hope
to see you there!”
Things to do in
the meanwhile:
learn Japanese
at City College,
elect a new
president,
shampoo,
and relax
on this
vibrant
Sunday
afternoon.

cmlxiv

PNG Alpha Transparency with MSIE vs.
Auto CEOs fly private jets to ask for bailout

This movie pretty much confirms my transformation
into a postmodernism-hating sap. I think. But I’m
happy to be coaxed or convinced otherwise. The
whole thing is so pedantic – except to say the refusal
or inability to live life to its fullest every second
(reasonably enough to continue to live to the next
second) – much less spending an entire awkward life
of unhappiness – simply does not resonate with me.
Furthermore, I fully believe you can embark upon a
“lifetime art project” (silly, tragic, or otherwise)
with mucho gusto and all the while be perfectly
capable of milking reality of every last ounce of
happiness or pleasure that is in any way available.
I’m at the Tenderloin Pakwan’s after picking up an
X-Men DVD. I do like my hot pakoras. Orgy in the
steamroom today: all white guys. I just finished
Rae Armantrout’s Veil – really got into it. Also reading
Torn Awake by Forrest Gander. I promised a week
without dates – a week all to myself – but how can I reneg
on this invitation? I remain, as always, ready for someone–
anyone–to knock some sense into me. I mean I’m
not saying I couldn’t get good & well engrossed in a film
about the tragedy of never being able to do those simple things
you need to do in order to experience love & happiness & all that
if it were actually well-written.
That’s all I’m saying.

cmlxiii

How redundant a question
is “How can it be November?”
Pretty much redundant, but honestly,
here we are again? Really?
Reading Bill’s poems, checking the
telephone (occasionally), turning
the page of this year’s calendar
(1,000 Places to See Before You
Die? Really!) – Isle of Skye,
The Inner Hebrides, Scotland.
Pausing to note a certain 20-
year-old. Tall. Smiles. Likes
sex a lot. Maggie Gyllenhaal
is awesome, I’ll learn how to
pronounce her name in a
few years. Darren at the
Café. Vincent, who
drops in for a little
entertainment on
his way to the
airport. The new
books. Serious
prospecting with
Gerrit Lansing.
April, January,
Thanksgiving.

cmlxii

Synechdoche, New York vs. Welcome to Collinwood

I’m just sitting here waiting for
something I can get embarrassed about
as the banana on my desk turns brown,
trying not to get too worked up over a
movie everyone loved but me. Got to
show everyone the error of their ways.
Ingratiating indeed.

Not that history is bound to repeat itself.
How to relieve oneself (of selfish existence)?
Sex. Twice during the movie we don’t finish.
And once this morning as we awoke.

No worries, good spirits, have met with a
calm. don’t be shy of unkindness /
why be afraid of hate
more O’Hara to stare me down
in the bathroom mirror at 5:10am
on a Thursday.

My favorite hour to walk the city.

cmlxi

Eerie aurora, galaxy smashups
                           —CNN.com

It’s not just that I steal such
glorious blighted words. I
don’t know who I am and
never did, but how could I
turn down such a golden leap?
Back we go to Captain Kirk’s
boyhood; let’s join him in
giving the world the finger.
Or let’s rather be realistic,
buy a couple bananas
so we can make it to five
o’clock and gingerly,
oh so gingerly, cross
Natoma while the Tuesday
noon alarm brings news
of day’s daydum.
Breathe it in anyway,
every rotted second of it,
dirty or not, displeasing
or not, splendid it will
always be. What foul
pleasure this, the bold
new galaxy unfolding
in front of our very arms?
Cannon to the right of me.
Cannon to the left of me.
Awkward I stride as each
ugly awning espied’s
blown well asunder,
yet our bloody entrails
ever blue and verily
intact remain – our
waxen appendages
engorged (for how
else react to each
brilliant starburst,
a carnal gift from
every last smithereen?).

cmlx

Orange is lying bleeding in my hand!
                                        —F.O.

What is your favorite color?
Mine’s yellow, as evolved from
purple and green. Otto’s is white,
which isn’t a color (debate
amongst yourselves). The
market staggers into red,
or is it black? I never
remember. I’m opaque,
or approaching same,
with no view of the
bay, absolute remorse,
pain even. Give me
a view of the city
or give me an
orange bled
blue.

Sidenote from Otto (by way of Wikipedia):
(White is a color.... )Since the impression of white is obtained by three summations 

of light intensity across the visible spectrum, the number of combinations of 

light wavelengths that produce the sensation of white is practically infinite.

cmlix

Last night,
rereading text messages,
feeling fresh
(a start),
email “enough!”

Sniffle.

               Met
James. Smoked.
Watched a show.
Three episodes.
I’m okay now.

cmlviii

Blood,
that we have martinis again.
A will-o’-the-wisp naivete
shorn of its adolescence.
Something to live for,
overnight,
in the heart of Spain,
like a high score
in Mob Wars.

cmlvii

Tears done (crybaby tears),
extension filed to the IRS,
two weeks since break-up
(number 2?), ominpresent
intimations of reconciliation.
Nowhere near as blah
as yesterday, and
there’s this fit
of confidence to boot,
swelling near to a burst.
Edward,
who lives nearby,
will never talk to me again,
yet asks me
as he’s walking
out the door: So,
if we were to have sex,
who’d dominate?
Yawn.
20 now equals
15 years younger
than me.

I see the delta.

cmlvi

...and then drink his blood.

Ah, the poseur, with his
absolutely intentional
unintentionality. The
tender blister between
thumb and forefinger.
Better Luck Tomorrow
by way of Phone
Booth causing the
bang of love. Causing
strife or maybe no big deal.
Causing the upside down
kiss at various angles
on the couch.
Biting lip, say

I’ve had a wonderful evening
but this wasn’t it.
                                           —Groucho Marx

cmlv

the unrecapturable nostalgia for nostalgia
                                            —O’Hara

How early does
Taco Bell open?

And what could
make anything
I would have to
say worth the
trouble of
passing along
to you?

That didn’t say much.

Except notice how
I’ve less than subtly
twisted it all up
into a bother only
selfishly burdensome.

No trouble at all.

I reached a new low
last night. And
to add to the
festering swale
of redundancies,
I spent all morning
trying to find 2003.

It must surely have
died a good death.

cmliv

I’ve not much
more reasonable
time left to
flirt with 19 and
20 year olds.

Is that a good
enough excuse?

Very well, then,
I’m doing
research for
my next book.

cmliii

After confidence, then what?

Like Frank O’Hara,
who found a way to be
proud of his penis,
I, too, had a dog named
Freckles as a child.