mcmxcvi

Details emerge forever
           —Lyn Hejinian

Keeping it fresh. I got a gmail
account. I’m trying to use it.
It’s nice out. I think I’ll go out
and read.

Halloween: It’s a beautiful day
to be in love with a Grammy-
nominated rock star. Otto
wants to play dress-up
tonight.

Eight years ago I used as
inspiration the titles of a
set of Gamma Go post-
cards. And then I went
to get coffee.

On Saturday night (isn’t
it always on Saturday
night?)...on Saturday
night after Grubsteak
a monumental reading
by Landis Everson
who is so very
bravo.

Maybe it isn’t
me who’s in
love with a
Grammy-
nominated
pop star (rock star?).

Then some wonderful
stories by someone
who died at age 31.

Today is Dragon Friday
(so I suppose that it’s
not always Saturday
night). Daylight
Savings Time
ended over the
weekend and
the afternoon
is likely to
go on forever.

mcmxcv

the air, heavy with failure

                      —Alice Notley

A patsy repeats the past.

That’s all there is to it.

Run, Bunny-Money, shouts Piggy-Jiggy

Run, Sheepy-Sleepy, weeps Goaty-Throaty

                                              —Lyn Hejinian

mcmxciv

All the Goofballs Meander Eastwood

“This movie is not making any sense.”

“Then take off your glasses.”

It’s not in 3-D.

mcmxciii

This Tactic Is Useless

“She doesn’t seem to have any flies”
(I’m misreading Medusa). “But it’s
your time, now.”

What about my time?

I hold up eight fingers and two
thumbs (opposable!) in defense.

“I have no interest in your thoughts
on any subject” (Alice Notley,
except she finishes with

“; though one sometimes
listens to pass the time.”)

Why do we keep these?
Mere tokens of meditation.
Like aspirin in the morning
(4 Advil at a time) and
how they accumulate.

“My bookshelf is my
morning,” Medusa’s
mouth moves as if to
say. “My morning.”

All the goofballs in
San Francisco (all
the fogballs) rise
and meander
eastward.

mcmxcii

What is the point

of this tactic? is

not exactly what

I meant to say.

mcmxci

A Milkshake Made of Gold

Okay, I’m ready now.  I just

need to know where I’m going.

I appreciate your concerns

regarding your visit.  Please

be assured that I had much

more to show you.  That’s

when I went ahead and

posted all of the ones

that I was embarrassed

about.  It actually felt

pretty good.  Until it

hit me.  There are so many

parties that I don’t get in-

vited to.  My attempts to

merge my nightmare

with your nightmare

kept getting interrupted.

I felt reasonably sure

that time was of the

essence.  That a

heartattack was

imminent.  Unless

I were somehow

able to arrive.  To,

you know, save the

day.  And most

especially

the night.

mcmxc

Keeping It Fresh

But it’s what I do.  To check in.

To say hi.  When I feel disconnected

or distant or when I’m dropping off

luggage or waiting for a taxi.  Other

games we play include looking into

a mirror for long periods of time,

walking all the way back home,

and taking very long showers.

mcmlxxxix

This Isn’t Idiotically Frustrating

There’s just too much negativity
(which reminds me: mental note:
remember not to ask how he’s
doing; it drives him back off
the wagon [or maybe it’s
back on the wagon, I
always get confused]).

Anyway, I often get
confused. That’s my
thing. Especially lately.
That and losing pairs of
eyeglasses (mental note:
henceforth, pay less for
eyeglasses!). I used to
find the ‘absent-minded
professor’ thing charming.

I try to remain in character,
though, no matter where
the adventure takes me.
Like now. Or. Sure.
But. I’m not a record.
I mean I like the idea
of growth or evolution
(becoming better, more
adaptable, more resilient).

I went to the doctor with
chest pains (my pain,
not the doctor’s). EKG(!?)
is fine; he says it’s probably
stress or gas or a pulled muscle.
Fine. I pour myself a glass of
filtered water and two glasses
of wine. I continue my research
on Mozart for my master’s thesis.
Halloween is just around the corner.

mcmlxxxviii

1988: the year I experienced

high school dating.  Or

having a girlfriend.  A

somewhat foreign but

fairly fortuitous experi-

ment that took me into

1989 and toward senior

prom.  But, by then, the

experience was pretty

much over, which led

to going to prom with

a ‘friend’.  Which was

not a date.  Once at the

party, we went our sep-

arate ways, and were

both totally fine with

that.  But omigod it’s

okay if I don’t write.

Isn’t it okay if I can’t

write about Doctor

Atomic?  About

Peter Sellars’

libretto after

2 glasses of

pinot grigio

with Claudia?

I’m not sure

how long I’ve

been trying to

make this record.

I don’t even think

I’m being paid for it.

What can I do?  It’s

a life.  It’s happening.

mcmlxxxvii

It’s kind of like a dream.  I

certainly don’t understand

it.  (The neighbor's dog

who hardly ever makes

a noise is stirring up

quite a storm of ruffs

and barks, getting all

the other neighbor dogs

roused, and even

Coco seems un-

easy.)

Transition.  Anything.

I find it easy to put on

a mask when writing.

To take on someone

else’s voice.  On

paper.  The only

way I can comfort-

ably role-play.  Be-

sides a stage.  That’s

not true, of course.

The notion of just

sitting, of being

aware, of meditating.

If it weren’t for my

spine, zazen would

be at the top of my

list.  My list.  Is in

transition.  I’ve been

in such a state lately

that I keep a file of

lists that I need to

scrutinize, to sit on.

To merge into one.

mcmlxxxvi

There’s a pounding pain

right here.  Inside of my

chest.  It’s either a lung,

my heart, or my stomach.

It’s sweet learning how

to live slow.  Adorable.

Oddly enough, that’s

the mood I’m in.  The

feeling of walking on

a campus.  I haven’t

felt it in a good while.

Maybe I haven’t felt

good in a while. 

We all go dancing

at Mezzanine.  I

overdo it trying

to make every-

thing the best.

I’m almost too

determined.  I

am hoping for

this.  I’m ready

for time to have

done its trick and

for everything to

be okay.  I’m not

sure.  I think about

how to get paid for

this.  And what that

means.  Sitting here

in this nice, new

place.  Wondering

how long it might

last.    Everything

is really the best.

I’m really looking

forward to it.  I

really have no

idea how long

this might last.

mcmlxxxv

Fact or fiction: I just saw my
favorite underwear? In a porn
flick. I spent all day in bed
buried in clean laundry. As
soon as lunch arrived, I got
a call and had to run an errand.
Hence, no lunch. I played 95
rounds of Bubble Galaxy with
Buddies™. All without any
malaise or edginess.
In reality, it seems like
everyone’s out having a
good time but me. At my
workdesk I figure out how
to bring back the balance.
Because. Because tomorrow
is October. Because tomorrow
is Otto’s birthday party. Today,
doing nothing but sending emails
of myself sticking my tongue out to
new friends and old friends I haven’t
seen or even corresponded with in
forever. Sitting ten hours in the box
before getting up and walking over
to purchase a digital camera. Oddly
enough, that’s the mood I’m in.
Saturday night. It’s mellow.
And my chest hurts.

mcmlxxxiv

I read 1984 in 1983.

Curran called when I got home
to say he’s now an uncle. Wild.
Otto dropped off his art supplies
so he didn’t have to drag them
around everywhere. Later, I’ll
have a drink with Alessia for
her birthday. At Le Coloniel.
Last night was Fred’s bon
voyage dinner. We went to
Chow. I met a few of his
friends, all very nice. I
was BEAT. At the
birthday bash, lots
of names come and
go. Jenn was a riot.
Afterwards, we ate
pizza and watched
AbFab. Anyway,
now my back hurts
but I will try to go
to the gym. I’m
not sure why.

mcmlxxxiii

I feel sorry for anyone that has to die.
                                       —John Ashbery

I’m in the leather daddy section, drinking a
strawberry banana smoothie, trying not to be
too rational. Fun. I could come here every
Saturday. But I feel distant. Maybe I should

explore a lot more. What’s up? It’s a not-so-
hot weekend. Standing in front of the Curran
Theater in the rain. Then sleep (with parts of
8½ strewn throughout). Today is a such a

blue day. I smack my head in the middle of
it. The board meeting on Saturday; a getting
up on the wrong side of bed thing. What else?
Nothing. A few folks came over, got angry

because we were in the middle of a fight.
But Sunday came. A happy morning
walking to downtown and back (which
is mostly like levitating, considering

our location). Then I napped. All
without any sense of malaise or edginess.

mcmlxxxii

How to Deflect

Do not build the ‘extra-dollar’ vanity
from Ikea. It seems none of us has
begun to digest the meal of all our
lives (John Ashbery). Yes, I am tired
of patriarchy (tired of the patriarchy).
Barf. That’s puke. Today, touchy.
Very. These days it’s probably
healthy to be able to joke about it.
We ARE sort of pretty when we
cross over that line of no return.
Nothing’s floating around in my
head but I keep reading sentences
that make me misty. That last
meeting was very vampire in
the end. There are way too
many meetings. Did the
main character become
a poem? Not to think
about it further. Does
that make sense? At a
burger joint having a
strawberry shake I feel
really cool. Am I about
to die? It’s a totally
different kind of place.
In a strange part of town.
I feel distant. Or something
severe. Perhaps I should
explore a lot more.

mcmlxxxi

‘of’ is such a top.
‘the’ is a total bottom.
but what if ‘we’ was
reversible, or, how
do they call it,
flexible, no,
transparent?
barf. that
crosses the
line, doesn’t
it? ‘to’ is
so healthy.
when it fights,
it’s good, but
it still ain’t
pretty. ‘is’
is, though.
at first I
thought
‘nothing’
was float-
ing around
in my head.
but then,
no joke,
‘that’
totally
ended it.

mcmlxxx

I still don’t know what people do
in the Bubble Galaxy. I guess it’s
just something to do every minute
through next week. That’s my

problem. Just trying to get it out.
It hardly ever works. It probably
won’t work this time. Whatever
happens that’s big around here

certainly has me touchy. First
it pissed me off. Fighting over
nothing. Another fight about
nothing. Okay, we don’t fight.

What’s healthy is writing fast.
That must be what has me
all misting up.

mcmlxxix

If you think the butler did it
ask him what happened in 1979.
Hint: they don’t make those in
Arkansas. My mother kept
reminding us of how they
had to ration stuff during
World War II, like eggs
and butter (milk, maybe?).
I don’t know how to deflect.
I don’t even know the name
of the movie.

                    Several hours
later I can TALK for pizza
and cocktails. It’s some-
thing to do every minute
of the week. Hang on.

So I’m doing all my
writing with calendars.
It’s the new way. Be-
cause this office has
no soul. Barf. That’s
puke.

         Plus we could
all die at any time.

mcmlxxviii

Floating on Jetsam

You win some,
you lose some.

We clear the
air in order to

bitch. It’s
always bitch

with him. I
need to stop

that. Our
friendship

will cont
inue to

leave.
I need

to bundle
TALK into

a series.
Several

hours
later

I’m
still

sleep;
he mis

under
stands.

mcmlxxvii

     in a roomful of thinking about you
                                —Ralph Angel

I take a thousand photographs
in hopes to remember what I see.

And did what? Then to The Gap
to buy new workclothes. Who am

I? In the middle of doing a bunch
of things at once. Called a job.

Then home to shampoo with
new shower head. Keep a

poetics (emerging); save it
daily. What else? Also did

what? Donnie Darko. Sun-
day coffee. Defunct like

Frjtz (Hayes Valley).
Bought a new wallet

while Otto went to
San Jose. Autumn’s

almost here. The
season that knows

when to leave.
Spare the

long goodbye.

mcmlxxvi

It is the bicentennial
and we are making
a quilt with our
grandmothers.
It is Mrs.
Wells’ (our
3rd grade
teacher’s)
idea.

Fred
is leaving
for NYC in
two weeks
(years before
we find ourselves
Skyping about our
various ‘projects’).

Whether or not
it’s important,
memory (or
something)
is exhumed.
We call it
a job or we
call it drinking
water.

After reading
half of the issue
aloud to Otto
he says “I like
sex and repetition.
Sex and repetition.”
It is 10:42 in the morning.

mcmlxxv

My albums are the shit.
Your career never farted.
                           —Eve

Wow, I just renewed library books.
They were 8 days overdue. I’d

no idea it had been that long.
Andrew & TJ are coming up,

perhaps even to the play.
Definitely losing my

health? Nah.
Hold on!

I need to catch my boss
after he finishes a meeting.

How to tell a story at
10am in the box with

bottled water &
lemon zinger.

My red headphones
are all strung out.

It’s only 3:14pm.
Conversations

remove me from
joy. This is out

of the ordinary.
No joy. No joy, no?

mcmlxxiv

Nothing but work and sleep
yesterday. Perhaps I should
steer clear of anything remotely
“political.” What I actually
wrote was “Perhaps my
political poems suck. But
Lemon Zinger Celestial
Seasonings herb tea
does not.” Nothing
but work, sleep,
bottled water,
lemon zinger
and Joseph
Ceravalo’s
“Spring In This World of Poor Mutt’s”.

mcmlxxiii

Influenza’s Innuendo

The Lone Ranger just made me laugh.
It had tragedy written all over it.

There are many things that I have
thought about over the years.

I want to seem/ gentle and wear
leather clothes. (Tim Dlugos)

Stop and start and stop and
start and align the

stars. Organize trips for
three members of the Cross

family to visit. A first for
two of three siblings in

twenty-seven years?
Watch Viggo sit,

roll over, gimme five,
and gimme high five.

mcmlxxii

I try to catch up with a fresh artichoke (again)

I could just stop there.
Or here. But not easily.

Instead I loudmouth
teach. Everyone a

lesson or two. What
gall! The nerve, right?

It’s a lot of things,
what. But it is

not growing up
to be a Baptist

preacher. It is
not an inapprop

riate firearm.
It might not

be voting for
Reagan once

(I’m truly
sorry). A

bowl of
grapes

on the
bed.

The
bearded

man eats like
a bear. And to

think it use to be
such a crime, eating

in bed. Just ask the bear
what wrote the law we just ate.

mcmlxxi

Heartsunk

     ...you provided the sideways like us
     with such rare and out-there company.
                 —Tilda Swinton to David Bowie, March 21, 2013
                    at the opening of “David Bowie is”
                    at Victoria and Albert Museum, London

She addresses him as Dave. And signs off as Tilly. My
discovery of Tilda Stardust, a blog dedicated to the belief
that Swinton and Bowie are one person.    But why sullen?

Oh. It says right here that “I had an argument.” And right
here it says “Exhaustion?” Also, right here, it says: ... ... ?!
WTF does it really say he said that? ... ... ... Heartsunk.

Hi. Today I’m using Major Tom and Orlando as
diversionary tactics. Not only that but mostly
revelation. At the end of a week full of

eureka! And then realizing that I’m not the
only love song, as it turns out. We both are. So
why trouble myself with an escape plan?

Why strategize to divert? It’s a pretty day.
I am sending messages here and there.
Interspersing these very sentences and

fragments with text messages (more fragment
than sentence, those). It says here that I then
thank him for such an “articulate brat.” And

it says right here, just at the very bottom of the
page, that “G-chat is not quite like Yahoo instant
messenger.” In fact, maybe it’s even better.

mcmlxx

Through the Stargate with a Wrinkled Nose

Delight creeps in. Like watching Agnes Moorehead
devour every single moment of screen time she has
in The Magnificent Ambersons. Or watching
Carol Burnett, Vicki Lawrence and Dick Van Dyke
initially feign attempts to stifle laughter (and hence
‘break character’) by bowing their heads as if in
prayer, and then each literally lose it, while
Tim Conway (Tim Conway’s ‘character’)
conveys in earnest (ever so slowly so as to
accommodate audience laughter) a story
about an elephant who was rumored to have
fallen in love with its trainer, who happened
to be a ‘dwarf.’ The pair come to a tragic
end during a purported sexual act (the
elephant has to be shot). They were
buried together. Then, another long
pause for audience laughter and
camera concentration upon the
rapt trio who’ve been attempting
to exhibit restraint (and therefore
‘character’), but who are each
beginning to fail, to succumb
to their own (non-‘character’)
senses of humor, to Tim
Conway’s deadpan delivery
of a silly story full of false
endings (each one a punch
line). After which Conway
begins another story, this one
about two circus elephants
who were Siamese twins—
they were attached by their
trunks. When one of them
would sneeze.....

After the movie, Curran
mentions that it is rumored
that Moorehead had a long fling
with Debbie Reynolds.

I’m feeling a bit vulnerable today. Heartsunk.

mcmlxix

The Final Resistance

Writing in the box,

drinking a lemon

zinger, finding my

self particularly

boring right now.

          Horses puked.

Nick’s back.  He

brought lots of

goodies.        I

find myself

soberly drawn

to rhyme, a

new addition

to my attraction

to rhythm, my

north, my end

less jungle.

          Your hands are

          like dicks

and their motivation

to commit (to be

committed).  To

go on (and on).

To concentrate

on it.  To culti

vate it.  The

going of on.

mcmlxviii

Ugh, the ominous. 

Trainwreck.

The next one will be

the last resistance.

mcmlxvii (the year i was born)

I’m sorry, it’s not okay,

everything is not okay. I am not fine. Sorry.
And maybe that’s not okay. Maybe that’s a
problem, it’s a problem for me to not be fine.
This being not okay. Or maybe it’s just fine.
This being not fine, not okay. This being a
problem.

What I keep hearing out the living room
window mornings of late is the lumberyard
about a half mile or so away from where I
grew up. Which, when things were quiet,
when, say, classes were in session at the
elementary school one block east of the
backyard swingset, and no Fort Chaffee 

artillery drills (which would often transpire
near Potato Hill, which rose from
a slight haze [light blue-ly]—like
one-half of a modest bustierre—about
a mile south of the backyard garden),
were audible from anywhere in the
backyard, say down by the grape arbor
near the apple and peach trees (three
apple and one peach, like the four
of us: three boys and a girl), a
morning-to-early-evening
repetition of an elongated
buzz (fifteen seconds or so)
followed by the methodical
thud .. thud .. thud ..
the muffled staccato
of the fresh boards—
Paul Bunyan’s toothpicks—
being stacked .. stacked .. stacked.

It’s done .. I’m sorry .. I am not okay ..