Wednesday, October 31, 2012


Don’t Write

I’m sure that we don’t always
disagree.  You agree to disagree.
I’ve never known how to handle
the inevitable.  I’m all over the
board, thrown for a loop.  It

gives perspective (while also
changing it).  This whole ordeal
helped shake things up.  I was
reminded, of course, of what I
don’t want.  I ask my remaining

friends if I’m a glass half empty
kind of guy.  Apparently, this
scares more of them away.  The
whole combination is what I’m
always trying to do, right?  Like

you know.  I sit on the plank
that juts into the little pond.
The sounds of water shake
the world up.  What’s left
of it.  Hours pass.  I have

fallen in love with a tree
that I cannot describe.
There are occasional
passers-by and there
is my companion

who calls after each
squirrel he sees.  Grey
squirrels.  It is mostly
peaceful and cloudy.
He calls each of
them Icarus.

Monday, October 29, 2012


You always look good.

As we were watching a slide show
of our decade of glory, the record
started to skip.  And then it skipped
and skipped.  We decided to do
everything (our vinyl hearts mashed
into our lungs).  Which is your
glory decade?  Perhaps it’s the
one in polyester we never want to
lose.  Everything you worked so
hard for.  Before stagnation, I
guess.  Back when we needed to
talk.  Yesterday we tried to shake
things up.  Meticulously, we
studied our optimism charts,
even taping them to the ceiling
and lying down on the floor.
We were so sleepy that we
were almost dreaming.  You
never wake up with sleepy
in your eyes, and your hair,
always mussed, always
perfection.  During the
merger, your eyes
twinkled like a light-
house over a foghorn.

Sunday, October 28, 2012


Interlocking rhythms weave the groove of life.
                                                         —Kit Robinson

You, the alternatively literate.  You there.

Do you have your big comfy chairs at the
ready.  Do you read me?

Work seemed hung.  Half the space wanted to
go very crowded, with gray suits, chatting
about love and relationships.  Then we

parted.  I walked up the hill, chatting on the
phone, looking for conversation.  Company
did not arrive.  It had been over six months.
Smelling like a cigar, I had a real bacon burger.

Well into another round, I wanted to go on about
the drink.  But the mood had shifted.  It took a
well-thought-out note and forty dollars to con-
nect.  We remain close?  My friendship is too
closed.  Stagnant, trying to shake things up

with our hands, starting to feel much better,
making too much noise, and measuring the
lightbulb that only one manufacturer provides,
I am optimistic about direction.  I look toward
the conductor who owns a talented baton.  It
is a kind of follow-up.  The haze dissipates.

Saturday, October 27, 2012


Let’s go all the way.

Or something.

I’m thinking of a week lost playing
games.  Games are everywhere, but
these were in my hand.  Was I in
control?  Yes.  The game is in my

hand.  Courtesy of microwaves
and lots of dead people.  But
thanks for your courtesy call.
Which I appreciated more, I’m
sure, than I would the call of a
curtain.  Or the fall of mankind?

Friday, October 26, 2012


Words Boob

This will take some getting used to.
Half the space is now destroyed by
tables.  We’ll never know anyone.
Is the real destruction how little
you trust my words?  Am I clear?
Must be never.  Clear as mud,
said the hippy-dippy leader
of the band.  Then come
to bed with me.  Later,
simply, come.

Thursday, October 25, 2012


Do you ever prose?

Or that’s what I thought he said while I
unscrewed the lightbulb that only one
manufacturer provides.  Later, I ran into
Todd in a hurry.  And wondered if he has
social anxiety, too.  Maybe times seem so
different because communication is mini-
mized surrealism.  Only five years ago I’d
receive daily treatises via email while today
we argue via text messages.  These are almost
the only words I ever delete.  I also have some
hair.  Most cameras disagree.  Do I mind?

As for musical taste, I’m beginning to lose
friends.  My family is not so very big, and
we are losing staff at a steady rate.  One,
two, three, and so forth.  But I’ve noticed
longer conversations.  Verbal, I mean.

I haven’t read a novel in two or three years.
I picked one up at the San Jose Airport a
couple of weeks ago, awaiting an important
arrival.  To be honest, I was just along for
the ride or hovering a bit too much or the
bastion of moral support.  I read two or
three pages of it and, when I finally got
home, promptly tucked it in between
a couple of dust-covered golden oldies.
The bookshelf in the kitchen has been
that kind of hiding place for over
eight years now.  I read you, man,
but I’ve a fertile fantasy world
up in here already.  And time
is money, you know?

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


All We Need Is Enough

Door.  Slam.  Thankfully,
it’s a slow week.  I was so
pissed.  It was big news and
so French—oh stupid words!

Considering all we had, we
moved on.  Across the mess.
Toward the cab bay, which,
like us, was empty.  Gearing

ourselves to adapt toward
the utilization of nothing.
The door is ajar.  We sniff
network.  And other works

such as teamwork and, at
last, homework.  Time to
squeeze oranges and grind
beans.  The charming squalor

of the refrigerator, only slightly
out of half and half.  The eight
ball drowns.  Time passes for
critical success and the luxury

of big comfortable chairs for
every meltdown or breakdown.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012


You must love this song forever.

I could throw such a party.  The
silken memoir of a slow week
with full lips such as awesome
and party and anniversary and
maybe even French.  I need to
get my arms around a number
(my arms?).  We left the issue kids
with a doctor of stupid words thinking
I’m ugly and this is really no good;
this unloving of our bodies that lasts
so much longer than usual.  But then
the stalking dogs, the ones who’ve
lived in ambiguity.  But always. 
Behind the door without a number.
But then the stalking dogs and a frenzy
of barking and growling.  Familiarity
nevertheless breeds a satisfying form
of pity.  This mixed genre, while a
bit of a cliche, makes Nathan Lane
beautiful.  So of course—and also
cliche—after work everyone was
horny.  It was a bad scene at first,
especially considering what we’d all
been through the week before and
whatnot.  But in the end we all had
such a lovely time.  And the forget-
ful bistro’s atmosphere, so haunting.
As it fades like a Polaroid in a dusty
closet, slips into a mid-summer nap
in the late afternoon or early evening,
a pile of dictionaries strewn about the
moonlit den, colleagues left with
what’s obvious, disguised as
forbidden fruit (but only tongue-
in-cheek).  To delicately explore
the luxuries of each dew-moistened
lip.  The vacation felt vaguely tropical
and slowly slipped into a dreamless coma.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Sunday, October 21, 2012


I’m just gellin’ for Magellan.

                                                       —Liz Lemon (on 30 Rock)

           I’m falling, I’m flying, I’m

waiting, I’m nothing, I’m


                                                         —Joseph Lease

Pigeon, oh pigeon, you ate my red envelope.

                                                                        —Otto Chan

Saturday, October 20, 2012


Less Room Than a Broom
              —from a Saturday morning infomercial

Broadcast on our 8th anniversary during a
Kylie Minogue concert, her latest, the one
we saw a few months back, only this one’s in
London, because I’ve been more than a little
confused, texting the silly world a collaps-

ible laundry basket, Tylenol PM, vitamins,
red stain for the new frame, some new
cologne, a forgotten English word-a-day
calendar, those new Sharpie pens which
should have been removed from the list

weeks ago, a ream of paper, Tums Smooth-
ies(!), Q-Tips, Scotch Pads, Kleenex, shave gel,
not quite being honest with myself or anyone,
feeling condensed by the gist of the week,
the stressful haze, as it gets carried away,

who knows where, just grist for the mill of it
all, and I’m walking the clog carrying a sign
that reads Wanna fuck me tonight?, only,
at least in the moments when the fog briefly
clears, not in a good way, not in the right

outfit on a rainy morning or a slow after-
noon.  Meanwhile, let’s divert, let’s ride
this wave, let’s get our heads in the game,
let’s celebrate, let’s be a long vacation
and buy domestic products like dust-bins

and new-fangled carpet suckers, ducking
in and out of warm reality, let’s go condo-
shopping, so awesome and so fulfilling
we send invitations longer than usual,
a telegraph, a tender kiss, a full report.

Friday, October 19, 2012


updated by Coco the Loco

Why would someone dye their dog blue?

Sorry, Jordan, for stealing your update.  I left
two hundred dollars in the ATM at Walgreen’s
and totally got credited for the entire two hundred!
All I had to do was ask.  And not die of embarrassment.

I wish nothing more than to get boned.  To move on.
And that’s not putting it eloquently or appropriately,
is it?  What can I do to keep this?  I’m okay.  I’m
seasoned.  I have to be so worried to think with

someone else.  That’s part of my mechanism
with exes.  Exes and ohs.  I do believe my
life is not a flash in the pan.  A total of only
twenty dollars.  A long, happy, utterly

fulfilling life to get skeptical about.  To
get boned, bored, and grow a beard.???????????*&&&&&&&&&&&&&F^)(((((((((}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}K LLLL±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±

Thursday, October 18, 2012


TRAIN I RIDE is a book by Kit Robinson

in which he writes
I was born at night, but not last night.

I so very much want to align myself
with the bottom of each page
like he does in here.

How to fix things on a rainy Saturday?
The end is always the end.
We know this much

or wish we did
drinking the silly world in
like I would be right now

if it were nearly seven years ago.
What a silly world
full of confused

honesty.  It is
very condensed.
But this is its gist.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


A difficult bill seizes you
in the middle of the night.
You see it as it sees itself,

sizing you up. 
You have allergies
(perhaps to dog, who

sneezes as you sneeze).
The difficult bill seizes up
in the middle of the night

—everything’s so offline.
You check your register as
the bloodclot eases up on itself

(as it dissipates as)
This dream ceases
(for better or worse).

Around this time
night cessation is
a sensation; i.e., it

brings on something.
Like a pain in the ass
(in the wrong direction).

Tuesday, October 16, 2012


I don’t want us to mimic the world we live in.  I’d be
voted off if you knew the state of my paranoia, jealousy,
covert tactics.  Soon, I hope.

Not on my clock.  That’s the key.  And with
twelve and a half hours dreaming of
dividing the erotic by the esoteric
(and vice versa).

I don’t get off at Starbucks.  Or
the Bistro Burger next door.

Monday, October 15, 2012



         Between the two of us we have four breasts.
                                    —Carrie Brownstein on Portlandia

Unfortunately, I can point to things.  This brings me
two thoughts.  One is the dear who can’t stand my
points.  The other is a poem by Kit Robinson
called Evidence.  Which can often be found
in the woods near where I grew up.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Saturday, October 13, 2012


like water, air has both good and bad qualities
                                                        —Jacob Eichert

I can’t wait until I am able to
focus again.  I need to purchase:
1) new pillows (Ross?); 2) new
land line telephone (;
3) battery & keyboard for my laptop
(make reservation with Apple); etc.

The storms of (pre-)spring are sub-
siding.  Lots of funny one-liners
as potential.  I’m sure that’s healthy.
Like two weeks of summer before
swimming in fog.  I wanted to spend
some time defusing whatever happened

a couple of weeks ago.  But the state
of the world (jealousy, paranoia, covert
tactics, etc.)....

Friday, October 12, 2012


Axe (dry), Rogain (3-pack)
with the sun fading away
from the the neighborhood
and the impossibility of ice
skating, our New Year’s
tradition.  I get a message
from Gail—Thank you for
using Walgreens—she’s
trying to reach someone
with the Silver Bells.
Calling to see if you’re
busy right now—I’ll try
calling one more time.
It’s the computer at
Pacific Gas and Elec-
tric—I was just in the
area and I’ll try one
more time.  How do you
hang up on this?  Sorry,
nervous.  I wasn’t sure if it’s
twenty minutes you told me
or to call in twenty minutes.
Hello, this is Andrew the
Zipper and I just wanted
an update on that Prius.
The poet is downstairs.
Are you awake yet?  My
mouth is full of batteries.

Thursday, October 11, 2012


Flag of Hand Cramp

Please believe me when I say
I can’t get through this.  Your
presence is required.  I could
call the police, if need be.

Somewhere a student is writing
I will not text during class.
One hundred times.  With
chalk.  I’m sorry that

you don’t get the picture.
It’s symbolic.  Of holiness
or naive virture.  But it’s
meant to make you think

of me.  I wasn’t born
with this name.  But it
is a work.  It is a piece
or pieces.  A stairway

to the belfry and not a
bunch of crap (unless
it’s bats in the attic).
This business of

enjoying life.  A
storm subsiding.
A point about trust.
We have yet to learn

what triggers
these events.  If not
for the handwritten
documentation we’d

all be newly re-
modeled parents. 
With potential.

Tuesday, October 09, 2012


Flag of Eyes (with Original Color)

Search friends for response.


Left work for movie.

Nobody knows it’s a first.

When my heart is shaped

like [this]

I don’t much care for argument.

Baby passing bus.  Scares honking

pigeons.  But it was easy.

Somewhat mindless.

“Hello, Mike”

and lots of funny one-liners.


Or new genre of pottery or maybe

new pottery genre

Big happening week formulating.

Flip through blogs work-ish.

[This] is the shape of [this]

when I see you can’t.

Bring yourself to bright

(light and airy, like my [this]

before sad and even sadder

without it.

Monday, October 08, 2012


I wish you luck, though.

I even wanted to raise you
as my own.  But everyone
looks alike where I come
from.  It’s the stuff of
tragedy, I know.  And we
speak a language somewhere
near the bottom of the mountain,
not towards the top, but yet lost,
or unable to desire that first en-
counter with a civilization that is
not our own.  Like from down the
street somewhere.  We fall drunk
into our laps at 6pm and they are
happy laps.  With blue skies and
leaves crawling out of their buds
(somebody dragging a suitcase
nearby thinks of worms, thinks
of Kenneth Cole, thinks of bus
noises and of dragging suitcases).
The birds sing a second or third
stanza.  It is a message of hope,
but, in our way, it is also wrought
with the fear of demons and terror.
Another distillery gets inherited
by a child who blushes at flapping
quail wings—no document will
ever exist to prove it.  Our
traditions come from the
island.  But for our great
barrier.  Our uneasy myth-
ology.  Our general lack
of interest.  Our banner of
representantion is our
symbol for landlocked.

Sunday, October 07, 2012


Ruthless = Rude

I’m all for equal rights
but I took a class on
mythology once and
walked around in a
stupor.  Before,
during, and after.

Friday, October 05, 2012


I’m so tired I forgot to laugh

at the coattails of love I’m
riding into December.  How
can I hide this amazing work
out.  All afternoon in the
afternoon of most afternoons.
When somebody says into a
little telephone a story which
finishes an argument feeling
drunk.  How to look without
yelling?  Or to interrupt this
program to look?  Without
yelling?  You need to reduce
being redundant.  I welcome
this disturbing drama with
arms akimbo.  When it
points and swings to and
fro it disturbs the neighbors.
You don’t have a say in the
matter.  Think of it like
karaoke.  Or a conversation
with a milkshake using
sign language.

Thursday, October 04, 2012


It’s okay to project,

it’s sometimes even fun
or helpful in a therapeutic
sort of way, but your scenario
simply would never have
happened in the first place.
Take being stuck on dry

feet.  How could anyone
work out on the lam?
Well, that’s a bad
example.  Take
the lid for my
cup.  You

know I’m right,
don’t you?  I can
be sly with love.

Take making
money, for example.
Which is probably a
bad idea.  Be open.
Be a jogger on a
bridge.  A gap

between teeth
your dentist
couldn’t afford.
You little piece
of sunshine
and bus noises.

A treatise on
hoping you
inward to

Wednesday, October 03, 2012


My glasses lying before me,
can’t or won’t discuss the
weekend, as a means of

From lousy.  From
who cares about it,
the movie with
candy and popcorn,

the slow walk thru
Chinatown to
remember the
good times.

I got your words.
Words like lying.
I care, too, on a
treadmill of

excellent mean-
ing.  A small
latté asleep on
top of my cellphone.

Tuesday, October 02, 2012


I thought I saw it
standing in the buff
down the barrel of a
gun.  Such a shame
on a brain out to

They jar those up,
he said (an oblique
update for a soup
gone awry).

Monday, October 01, 2012


I wish I could fathom the top of the week,
you in nothing but a pair of underwear
cooking stir-fry.  Something with asparagus.
I’ve lost all respect for making ham but can we
make the nerd stay?  For a day or so?  Or send one
down from the Northwest (Seattle is so salty!).  Or.
Does it have the bends?

I look around for a neck brace.  My head hurts
like an IMAX and I don’t know how to graduate
from aspirin.  Or liquid gelcaps.  Which moose
is candy?  A curtain that opens up to nothing.
(Now he’s after me.  And everything else
in my head.)  Meanwhile in Aspen,
you smoke a salmon.

Losing it isn’t worthless.  It’s a religion
based on logic and built on a house of cards.
At least I’ve got one.  Not some big rubber ball
that’s floating around in your apartment.  Looking
for yoga.  Not even apartment yoga.  Which
doesn’t even require underwear, so to speak.
With red elbows into the magic carpet

you take off
for homeland
without even
one stick
of gum.