mclvii

Mimicry, being the greatest form of flattery...

What’s wrong with straightforward?   Why must
everything even semi-compelling tend toward the

oblique?   In love (and its various offshoots) there
are those to whom the chase is by far the most inter-

esting part.   Being of that persuasion for the majority of
my years, now I only play hard to get.   Still obsessed, how-

ever, with the overly long (a few years is fine) and even
semi-ambiguous chase, this reduces my chances of a

palpable and palatable terminus (OK, consumma-
tion) to nearly nil.   This presumably works well

when one is happily espoused (particularly
if yet unable to quell hopping around like

a rabbit).   But for vested hedonists (es-
poused or not), this is conducive to

torture.   Like waking up one morning
and realizing I’m a full-fledged extrovert

when all my years I’d been spuriously con-
fident in my introversion, realizing that I’m a

masochist after a lifetime of playing a pure-bean
vanilla romantic idealist is a groundbreaking, if

not utterly dementing, experience.   Here’s a toast
to slews of such deliciously preposterous discoveries.

mclvi

       A cat stalks a bird, the cat leaps and misses but creates a
moment for itself, that’s what time is—the rupture called failure
that even for a cat is an event.
                                                                  —Lyn Hejinian (from Lola)

All available sun is consumed.   Maybe it’s too much caffeine.
Step into the bee-chat line – it’s a fairly regular morning, which
dwindles into a conversationless dusk.   Stick out tongue for
sun lozenge.   Doodle in the margins until fully digested.

This is adult thinking.   I wanna chastise him but instead say
“DUH”.   I have to say it’s lovely, though.   I really enjoyed
it.

The following stanza is all about the sun as ‘author’.   It
plays like Noh drama.   Or improv that is awaiting variation.
Interpret the rays beaming down into a bowl of overly-sogged
Cheerios.   Pages of magazines ripped out and pasted to the wall.

The conversation always comes back to dick size.   Sure, there
were delicious salmon crepes at Chez Maman.   Beans.   Elephants
on a whim.   Or was it that he simply tried to talk me into an elephant?
Stepped into a bookstore and thought about yesterday.   Ubiquitous
yesterday.   Tried calling Garvin, whose roots are showing.   Refuse to

leave a message.   Last time there’ll ever be Garvin.   Garwin.   Whom-
ever.   Idiosyncrasies sway like chaises longues in the noontime breeze.

mclv

Uptight leeches go to bitches.   It’s their Xanax.

What do I get out of this?   He’s so submissive.
I really feel like loss.   What’s full of life and
perhaps bucolic.    (Yesterday I said bubonic
when I meant platonic.).   Moving a pun
forward, plague is such a silly thing
to feel!   Hear I am.   Full of accid-
entals.   Cute, huh?   Why argue
about evolution, societal ev-
olution, and still order the
peppermouthed lemon
shark?   I am full of
life.   Maybe I’m
having a sub-
missive.

mcliv

I rub myself with each word
so I can deliver the goods.   The
limits of the left are choking me.

Time to literally turn the ball
over.   Pop a Tic Tac and be
mature.   First off, I don’t

usually get anywhere.   OK,
point is I really want a hambur-
ger to play with me.   Each thought

sticks inside another, like those
Russian whatevers.   Word is
gone.   And is gone.   But

rubbing tends to, you know,
same thing alternative device
does.   Only nothing works now

that I just want him.   Him with the
Tic Tac eyebrows and the misininter-
preted satiety.   He’s the one that gets to

play with all the hamburgers.   I’m the one
stuck inside a Russian whatever choking them.

mcliii

While it was indeed difficult,
this proves that I can write an
entire poem while two people
have sex right next to me.

mclii

Near the End of the Checklist

Muhammad Ali always comes up
during sex.   It’s for the better.   These
are exacerbated (and multiplied) by
flashbacks.   The 70’s didn’t come

soon enough for him.   Anyway, if
you’ll excuse me, I’ll go slip into
an ice cube.   (This apparently gives
you time to put your ear to the key-

board for a few minutes before
bursting out laughing.   Whatever
did you hear in there?)   This is
the episode where the remaining

Golden Girls attend a seance
for those duly departed.   Awards
all around.   One for each granny’s
latest sexual pun.

mcli

world reversal

i can hear the smoke in your voice.
now i know that you’re a time bandit.

mcl

abel can’t spell.

he’s an apple whore.
we judge such things
to help put us in touch
with a past life.   or more

likely a future one.
it’s a slippery slope.
there’s a new spot
with french fries

where the buns
open like curtains.
nothing much lives
up in there.   only a

late night (and un-
fortunately fully
clothed) game of
twister.   no, really,

what lives up in there?
can’t i make my way in?
forge ahead!
yummy!

mcxlix

are you using time travel?

can you pass me those snacks?
i’m really energized because
i’ve made a plan.   it’s dramatic
and not very intelligent.   it’s
utterly amazing how we mis-
conceive our very own person,
find we need a lot of help with
translation.   like realizing i’m
actually a drama queen and not
the bastion of stability and even
serenity that i always assumed
that i was.   i walked around for
years like such a bastion when
i should have rather limped along
more appropriately.   this sort of
thing causes confusion for every-
one.   also i’m old a little when
i should be much more alert.
and too damned sleepy.   i’m
very collage-friendly, too.
which toothpaste is yours?

mcxlviii

the war against drugs

i always imagine bill giving me a bit
of a tut tut whenever i write without

caps.   life’s better when you under-
estimate the gravity of the situation.

you be the judge, though.   was that a
chuckle or did you just puke a little?

you’re a strange person.   there’s just
too many cancer-causing devices.

i know what you mean but i can’t
hear you right now.   something

squeaked.   it’s just me in the
shower after two jugs float

over the sulfur baths and
i get the most spiritual

massage ever, one that
nearly came with a

happy ending.

mcxlvii

have you ever known me to ask that question?

i’m not saying anything you don’t already know.
i’m just carrying on a conversation while reading
a book with someone who just bought a house in

santa clara.   eviscerated limbs.   phone sex.   and
getting our rocks off at the waterfall by a duo from
new zealand.   it was the first time i ever saw you

come.   i never do that kind of drive.   the company
so outstanding it’s like we’re all competing for
inclusion in the next number one love song.

feeling terribly lovely, french, and in love;
floating out over the abandoned piers of the
twenty-first century where flat is good

and there’s a robust resemblance.   with
no time to speak of.   except i’ve set aside
this much for a brief intercourse.

mcxlvi

tuna & the internet

it’s my first time here, what’s the password?
whale-watching at esalen.   also the animals:
a squirrel, a lizard, a starling jay, and a very
tiny lizard.   i’m not interested in hearsay.

where he eventually made clear in no un-
certain terms that he intends to alter each
of the already perfect photographs.   it’s
always a conflict.   i mean he was clear

as a bell, though i only saw his fuzzy
torso.   i’m grateful for this whore of a
night.   but you need to figure out if you’re
hung or not to really make this happen.

mcxlv

a nipple ring is an amenity.

bust a nut with newfound discipline.
bust a nut typing bust a nut –
presumably the first time ever.

i remember waking up with you
tomorrow.   9am party.   a new deal
where eventually we seize upon

uncertain terms.   we’re all grateful
for this.   we’ve been working on it
forever.   take me aside and talk to me

about things.   let’s move to hong
kong for it.   trek to pfeiffer falls
dusty afternoons, sweat it all out.

mcxliv

aftershock.

take me to the safe side
with my good friend, the ocean.
should i disconnect & reconnect?
or reconnoiter?   life is interesting
without the internet.   basing chances
on sex with the quality of your reading.

big sur lodge.   trashed the last seven.
accidentally!   that’s a first.   25-75%
chance of recovery.

messianic trees.   the anti-capital-
ization myth.   naked faces in
dancing shadows.

it’s not strange that water
would drip from a spigot.
writing poetry with two
naked people.

mcxliii

It’s impossible to even see it.
But everything’s about it.

An hour of non-lunch.
Lost my me.   Missing a butthole.

Might’ve been kissing a butthole
but everything’s lost outside
for an hour.

Tuna cheddar at noon.   With
helicopters.   Picking up
birthmarks on the
roadside.

Vintage sounds:   buzz saws,
what used to be called a jukebox,
being lovely and sweet and feverish.

On loan to the KFC, I’m
impossible to fry.   Impossible
to puke or to pluck.   Envy

eyes atwitter scanning candy.
Eye candy here?   Corn-on-the-cob
and cole slaw and biscuits

my pals from the netherland.
Am I remiss?   I’m remiss.

And missing non-lunch
because I’ve been dating.

Of course he’s cut in two.

Legs.   And thighs.   Oh,
and two tattoos.

One his kissing lips.
And two his missing butthole.

It’s impossible to even see it
(whatever happened to CNN?).

But everything’s about it.

mcxlii

I’ve requested to stay at his place tonight.

A quarter in the (used to be called a jukebox).
Here we go back to waiting.

A neurotic disliking – like the new table dance.

If he’s so hesitant, perhaps I should give Garwin a call.
I DO need to study.    Morose dislike.    Moronic dislike.

L O O K.     (How about cheap glue?)

I’m so hungry for the wood.   The word.   And so pilfered.

My butt’s glued to the chair.   The word is passion.
Passion isn’t wood nor moronic.   Talk specifically

about the handwriting.
Been here a while.   Should shed presumably.

Shed-eye.   Peeling the ink off.   Beholden.

Perhaps I should put a quarter in the new table.
Dance with the pilfered (used to be called a jukebox).

From mine: right across the mid-term.

K i s s   m e
on this cheap glue.    Daylight.

mcxli

Of course I’m not what I used to be.

Shut up! go the snapping redwoods.
Shut up!   Shut up!   they know.

What’s wrong with falling in love, anyway?

It’s spilt milk and we’re all allergic.
My mind is not expensive enough.

E x p a n s i v e .

Ask the trees about the binoculars.
Reminder:   binoculars.

Way to beg! he says at Starbucks.
I’m just keeping my options open,
I’d be remiss if I didn’t do so.

Yesterday is all too satisfying.
One day I woke up,

the riot act was over
and I flirt.   This is the flirting line.

Mine may be too little eye contact
so I sit at a table made of redwood.

Give Garwin a call.
Glad to be a chair.

David at Tully’s yells because I’m
in the wrong line.

This line is for flirting.

Shut up!   Shut up!   Shut up!

mcxl

poppy seeds & bibelots

adjunct all you want

pasted-up brain in the gutter

road bumps the clams hover about

animated birthmark

load rumps into the tunnel

before the big decision

stylized Hudsucker

more Millay on quick sushi

shuttered butter

nice a lot     mostly online

mcxxxix

way to pump that gag

wing a wing on down
to the red wine (Oonopais)

Crackerjacks scattered
on the Public Parking

sidewalk – oenophiles
at noon – September

aperitif – & a lot of
thinking on all fours

the whole enchilada
since Friday – how

help nomad land
at noon – September

ruffians of the right
wing – iPhones

tinkling amongst
the redwoods

mcxxxviii

Language is a sand bar.
                  —Kit Robinson

Fact actions are the greatest.   If you want to send a memo
I’ll circulate it.   Nothing beyond the obvious, of course.
I couldn’t agree more.   Very pleasant terminal of an
afternoon.   Finally getting clear about the other guy.
Don’t lie about thinking.   Please call to confirm
sphinctered diction.   Elaborate, Louise, elaborate!

mcxxxvii

Is this a massage?   It certainly feels like one.

Lars lights up from smelt.   History repeats it-
self into a mister, lights up New York for the
third or fourth time.   The average cost per
monkfish is seventy-five dollars.   Look

up heartfelt.   Look up, heartfelt.   Bogey.
Noon is a tundra of government scrutiny.
Take pictures of 2nd Avenue, New China-
town.   Shower on a donut; hit a few in the

Triangle.   Monkfish hairpiece.
It’s a nice day for a Blue Angel (scream-
sung over White Wedding).

mcxxxvi

Sorry Beijing

Words in the middle of the mouth.

Gelatin sky over sloping people sipping green tea.

Disney buys aerial wedges – four billion dollars.

Hulu Young & the Restless just to feel something.

Come over – repeat – come over and check me out (new identity).

Dusk purchase: melancholy pork scramble + Yanni.