mcmxxxvii

     some things never run out;
     my poverty, for instance...
                                                  —Tim Dlugos

One fun thing about words is not knowing what they
mean and using them anyway. Although that sentence
could be—clearly is—retribution for my bitterness
after being told that “one shouldn’t use a word unless

one knows what it means.” Words are innocent,
carry no charge. It’s the mouth behind each word
that inflates or ignites or disinterests said word,
that then has potential, perhaps ‘carries a charge’....

I’ve received both ways: electric breath and flopless
fish breath. And I can honestly say that it’s (practic-
ally) impossible to volley with a dead fish.
I never fail to flush with embarrassment, however,

when told straightforwardly that my breath has
quite a charge. But that’s the thing with electricity.
And, given the relative wealth of many executives
in the electric industry (and various other power

industries), perhaps I should consider charging.
By the word, would it be? If so, I can ensure
that I’d be executive material in no time flat.

mcmxxxvi

Language Is A Map For Culture

He’s breathing into her banana.
Even though her banana, it
seems, can breathe just fine;
needs no help whatsoever.

The peacocks are making noise,
as if only for us. One of them,
a male peacock (of course),
poses very specifically.

Then, then, it starts running
around and around (in circles)
trying to figure out who in the
hell we are. Evidence of this

confusion (or curiosity) is
forthcoming. Possibly.
Depending on how the
pictures turn out. But

if history repeats itself
(and why wouldn’t it?)
they should be very
pretty pictures indeed.

mcmxxxv

What if society were founded on arousal instead of disgust?
                                                                  —Bob Glück

When you say the word usurp,
so tipsy with innocence, I just
want to eat you!

My handwriting is bad enough.
But I cannot even read my own
text messages (even the sober

ones). However, it does clearly
say right here that the peacocks
are making noises. And thus it

seem to saith (right and verily here):
“...so list with innocence”—
I really have no idea what I

meant. What that was. So...
(yesterday, for example, it was
clearly “lithe with innocence”) ...

Huh??! And, honestly, why
mince? Because it then says
(right here): I don’t remember.

And, furthermore, that it
sounds like a sneezer
(these are clearly my e’s,

so it [clearly] wasn’t a snoozer.)
(But a sneezer??!)
(sigh) I could have

perhaps meant the lisp
of innocence. Just as easily as
I could have hit snooze.

But what a (forgotten)
moment to remember,
the shadow of him,

so lithe, so list, and
such a hot lisp, all
tipsy with innocence,

a moment that, once
it’s gone, sure
couldn’t be any more.

mcmxxxiv

     I wonder whether you’re still
     writing Allen Ginsberg imitations
                                     —Tim Dlugos

For lack of an offbeat ________, today is
Monday, March 18th in the Block Fortress.
I could be updating my purchases into my
new golden laptop (while attempting to

salvage the corrupt brains of its laptop-
daddy [who is currently on life support],
gathering garbage from laptop aunties
and uncles, and dumping it all into less

garbage-looking slagheaps...).... (cf:
this analogy heretofore forbidden) (
okay, wait, they say never say never,
so let’s not promise the kibosh, but

instead throw up) for your entertain-
ment, a few tidbits from last night.
A sort of juggling act (which I will
now misspell cat) involving well

over twenty-four hours of time
travel. In which I park the car
(a lot) and roll over onto my
back for a massage (which I

now misspell message). And
unlike unliking, this never
grows tedious or tiresome.
There should probably be

three t’s for redundancy
but I’ll now turn the
podium into a chaise
longue. Which isn’t

yoga, per se, but in-
volves a provocat-
ively dissonant
hum.

mcmxxxiii

How can you write a musical without the internet?

This morning’s creep watches the cat watch me. In my
imagination, of course, because all of my friends are
dead. Except the monkey who wonders if wearing this
shirt will offend any of the people whom I’ve chosen

to take to the dance tonight. Tonight’s dance is the
cryptic dance of the green-glitter saint. We can dirty
our senses by marching forward, into the fog, but we
can only dirty our senses a little bit. Is it never enough?

This is the day I begin looking for a job – no holds barred.
It’s never enough to just stare into a penguin’s eyes. One
luminous blink and what grows in the garden is but a sack
of potatoes. If we took a picture of ourselves next to the

potatoes we’d be frozen in time, for sure, but when the
last remaining inhabitants of earth board the starship to
humanity’s next residence, nothing will be frozen anymore.
And then where would we be, you and me? I hitch my

burlap skirt up enough to exhibit my knees as if
to emphasize this point. As if.

mcmxxxii

I forget why I am doing this. I forget why I am doing this.

Stranger conversations than this have begun with
less enthusiasm. And tasted less like onions.

The bubblegum in his mouth grew less and less
dry, like the language of commodity. If I really knew

that I were here, would I really care? Rather than, say,
there? My primary plant wilted as this did not blow

my mind. At all. For emphasis? Which threw me into
a bingo frenzy. I daubed well into the night and awoke

from a narcotic frenzy of shallow, binary dreams. And
to discover that I had not vacuumed. After all. As if.
As if I had forgotten why I was doing this.

mcmxxxi

He must have a different pair of software than I do

I thought one of the rules was that it was okay so long as he’s straight. (He
wants to come stay the night. Like on a Thursday and a Monday or something).

Omigod someone’s calling and I’m not answering the phone. (That’s the 4th one.
I’ve gotten 4 so far.)

Don’t you make fun of me just yet.

mcmxxx

a twist in my sobriety

there are only 2 things i will ever ask of you

in this next 5 minutes:

1. strawberry milk

and 2. afrin

mcmxxix

hey

helloo

o

o

i just wanna check to make sure

that

it’s

well

it’s ok

for me

u know

to go to the living room

for just a couple of seconds yo

(& i'm a wee bit in the raw...)...

coast all clear?

roger

and out

mcmxxviii

If literature has a holy task, is it to resurrect the dead?
                                                             —Lyn Hejinian

It’s a joyous Christmas in the tunnel of love
despite all the hacking and sneezing.
Christmas came ten months early this year
and we are all as happy for it as we are

proud of it. Mixed in with a pair of
valentines it’s the ablution of love.
This is the ablution of love (mixed
with two or three valentines and

the bells of Grace Cathedral).
“Come out! Come out! Where-
ever you are!!” Ah, but I can
hear you purring under the bed.

The peacocks are also making
noises. And they pose for us
(of course). The tour starts
down the hill: “We’ll talk a

little bit about our farming
practices.” Etc. Next up:
driving home; doing...

mcmxxvii

What is this dog complaining about?
         —from my Doodle-a-Day calendar

Serious emergency: our huggable rabbit has an
ashy face. Almost call 9-1-1 is hardly a solution.
Any ideas?

What if my journal from 1979 met my iPhone
app diary from the day before yesterday?
Would they be fast friends and
giddily catch up on all of the gossip?
Would I be indifferent at
their even meeting?

That wasn’t romantic. At all.
Unlike our dinner and its
resplendent berry crisp
at the Calistoga Inn. We’d
better go soon.

I perked up a bit after some guy gave me a
My massage was rough, especially at the base
of my skull rub. It was rough. Especially
at the base of my skull. It was pretty windy, too.

There were lots and lots of mountains
after we purchased the little cork candles
and sipped our favorite muscat.