mmxl

Big Sur.  River Inn Motel.  9am.

I’m on the porch after a rustic

shower.  Which is supposed to be

romantic, right?  This week I will

work every day except Thursday,

which is Thanksgiving.

Driving back down from Monterey

last night was a bit stressful.  At

night, along the winding coastal

highway, it seems entirely too

easy to drive off the cliff and

into the ocean.

Yesterday afternoon we spent

in Carmel, a lot of it walking

barefoot in the sand, occasion-

ally wading into the water when

it rolled in.

We’ll walk across the road to

breakfast in just a moment. 

It looks like it’s going to be

another gorgeous day.

mmxxxix

THE NEXT POEM WILL BE CALLED: Girl, It’s Sanskrit! [snap snap]

The snaps are in Z-formation.

Your solution is don’t think about it
and it’ll go away. I dissolve within
the problem. But we at least agree
on what the problem is. Don’t we?



THE NAME OF THIS POEM WILL BE: Is That My Horrorscope?!

OK, last night.
RELAXED at
Badlands. Tr
ashed at Osaka
Sushi. Then Bad
lands again, which
I’d never done be
fore. Then I went
home (Then I went
home). I need to
try that soon. Then
you made this mov
ie of me being an
absolute idiot! It’s
amazing and disgu
sting at the same
time. But it just
had to be done.



THE NEXT POEM WILL BE CALLED: Zeitgeist In Christ

Anyway, sorry.
I’m not supposed
to be the enemy,
right? I’m sup
posed to be the
shoulder, the
teammate, the
first & last per
son you count
on, go to...

mmxxxviii

     what did you learn during your years as a goat shepherd?

                                                        —[o]Scar Schwartz (via Twitter)

     I’ve been so fucked up for so long that my come-down is going to be magnificent.

                                                        —overheard on Pine Street

     In any given fever, let only one try to mirror your feeling

                                                        —Suzanne Stein (via Facebook)

    

     Guys thanks for all the feedback on enchiladas.

                                                        —Eric Stonestreet (via Twitter)

            

                                           I’m starting to get 

                            super-duper loopy.

mmxxxvii

He didn’t want to look at the antiques. I was
talking in one direction and he was in his own
world. So maybe it’s fine now that we have
each, for the afternoon, embarked onto our
very own adventures. The future is such
a cute place, but it never should be
talked about. Hungry, I get stupid,
and purchase two rocks from a
stranger ($75). That is really
not something you can eat.
Especially after 150 poems.

Later, on the dancefloor. It’s
the most amazing, sensual
Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang.
We probably looked like
quite the loverbirds. It’s
always somewhat interesting
how the story unfolds. Or at
least I think he was happy.
Arriving home without my
posse I realize with clarity
that I want to BE Robert
Downey, Jr. That was
Sunday, though. Or
Wednesday? Last night?

I gather everything up
and put it all into the bag.
And then I notice that he
has texted me. I love you
and I’m being a monk;
a smiley-face of relief.

mmxxxvi

I hover over
the armpit
at peace with,
yet puzzled by,
my curiosity.

mmxxxv

I have no idea what I was about to write.

“This is how I organize my thoughts,” says
the mustachio’d gentleman through his
mustache. I try to help by letting him know
that what he has in his hands used to be called
a flow chart. He stares blankly at me with his
beautiful, piercing eyes.

mmxxxiv

I’m reading while rolling my eyes,
thinking please, please, I’m not one of
THESE people, am I? So I put the book
down. Believing in evolution, I chant
inwardly (silently, or more as an echo
in my skull), I am going to remember
this place.

And then I wake up, wholly invigorated.
I clean the apartment a little, listening
to my new ‘mellow’ playlist. Then I
walk down to Sutter and Stockton,
but instead of coffee I order a
SuperGrass, or whatever it’s
called. Being very healthy,
or imagining such.

Then further down the hill
I realize that I’m not wearing
my running shoes. I’m going
anyway, I think, trekking
my way to the YMCA. A
morning steam is good there.
They’d just opened, so it was
quiet, and I could sit sit and
sweat longer than usual.

Then we meet up at the Ferry
Building where I look at cute
books and adorable tea sets
and you check out the
little birds (not real
birds) who magically
react with a chirp
whenever they ‘hear’
a noise.

Then we go outside (be
cause you want to), look
out at the bay, Treasure
Island, and a seal. To
wind down the morning
you suggest we go to
our place – the little
park that is Levi’s Plaza –
and gaze silently at the
burbling waterfalls there.

mmxxxiii

...nothing sexual but
the Declaration of Independence
placemat.
                                —Reed Bye

Am I the privileged? I must be,
having several opportunities to
overspend on things like dance
parties, mimosas, toys from the
toy store, juice from the corner
store, and lots of books of poetry.
Most of which I can purchase
online. Very easy, right?

I’m not sure how important
this topic is, nor how thoroughly
I have sullied it, nor whether I
have proven or disproven my
point, nor whether I need a
haircut before my meeting
tomorrow afternoon.
Could you perhaps
enlighten me?

I often think about 

how wonderful lust is. 

I talk about this wonder. 

In my mind, which is 

probably a pretty 

strange place,
if there is one thing
that has consistently
(persistently) all
owed me to
retain a portion
(at least a portion)
of my youth, it would
be this very wonder
(may it ever exist;
may it never 
desist!).

mmxxxii

Watching that movie was like
sitting ringside next to a three
hour wrestling match. I assume,
having never been to a wrestling
match. It doesn’t seem my sort of
thing, just to be clear. I keep watch-
ing movie trailers, much more than I
watch movies, imagining I am to be a
world-renowned movie trailer critic.
It could happen. But why let it,
having already thought it all
the way through?

mmxxxi

I am two months behind in posting.

I am eating up my retirement account.

I am wishing my nephew a happy

birthday.  Each day there is a

2.46% chance that it will be

the birthday of either a nephew

or a niece (not counting great

nephews or great nieces – is

that what you call them?).

I have turned our bed into

my office.  I spent all night

over a week ago going through

a two foot stack of papers and such,

sorting and appropriately filing the

papers and such while also drafting

a new ‘to do’ list.  After over a week,

all I have of the list is still just its

initial draft.  I feel that I may be

too close to tell if I’m obsessive

or neurotic, and, if so, whether

either of these is a problem or

not (in the grand scheme of things

or relatively speaking).  I am just

a little bit emotional this morning

for some reason.  But not bad.  I’ve

just had my biggest workweek, at

least in several years.  If not ever.

I’m going to try to remember this

place.  Anyway, rather than –

I have no idea what I was about

to write – I took a sip of the

strawberry lemonade and

it all went away.

mmxxx

Did you like the picture I sent you?
Do you appreciate how I’m using
your book to cover my crotch?
Do you like the multi-colored
underwear (mostly pastels)
that frame your book
in the picture that
I sent you?

mmxxix

Continue Björk

The incessant crinkling of a mostly empty
bag of potato chips. Rummaging through
luggage. These are noises I hear out in the
hallway. From here in the bedroom at
three in the afternoon. Reading the
biggest book in forever, The MIT Years.

Today I sit for a two-year evaluation.
My lover always has the higher score.
“We are in two different places,” I say,
and try to paint a picture of a map with
two figures: one scrappy with youth
and unsettled (blurry, or vibrating);

the other, plump yet vigilant, knowing
where he’s going (his hipster boots
shackled to the floor with a disco
ball overhead, symbolizing a slight
dizziness). One of us has been
watching a nephew grow up

on Facebook, amazed at how
childhood becomes awkward
youth. The other keeps at
least one foot on a ladder,
he’s heading up to the roof
now. Hanging on to a star.

mmxxviii

“Who’s That Flirtin’ with the Coach?”

     It’s the potential I’m in love with
     when I sleep with someone new.
                                    —Alex Dimitrov

I never had a thing for professors, teachers
or coaches. Starting when I was about
seven, I always brought along a few books
to read. Including, now that I just sit here
waiting (I know this part already), My
Hand Keeps Cramping Up and I Want
to Hug the Brick Sidewalk on Market.

It’s rainy with a few low-flying airplanes.
I love this city. Especially its mornings.
Especially when cool and crisp. Especially
when I take advantage of the entire page.
It is well worth the sixteen dollars and
fifteen cents. I presume that’s the most
I’ve ever spent on one, but I’ll keep you
posted. Feeling lost

I unholster my phone. Remember un-
holstering phones? I think I’ll start
with poker first. I say “poker” – just
a little bit louder than a whisper. Then
maybe a couple of rounds of bingo.
I just got into a dumb tizz, so am trying
to calm down. This is the way it always
works with me. I begin to know these

things. I am beginning to know things.
Just as soon as I remember something,
I’ve forgotten it again. It’s the morning
of a new day, as if the dawn of a new
era. That picture of you yawning with
my family. The you. The family. It’s
always the same thing. Easy off. Easy 

on. Easy in. Easy out.

mmxxvii

Well, here’s the start of a new saga.

     It was a bright day.

     The sun forgave no one.

                  —Alex Dimitrov

To recap, I’m sitting in the

Jury Summons Room (#007)

imagining James Bond as a

juror.

My heart to the heartthrob

whose life left Vancouver

and all of the rest of us

cold.

Where was I 6:00-8:15am

this morning?  Making sure

everything got off to an ok

start, without a hitch.

And last night around

10:45-11:45pm?

Watching an animated cartoon.

Remembering walking home

in the mist.

     See, I don’t like being heartless.

     I’m not good at it, I quit.

                  —Alex Dimitrov

R.I.P. Cory Monteith

mmxxvi

I dress to express a hoped for solution.
                              —Mei-mei Berssenbrugge

Funny, we had a decent conversation up until
that point. Did I mention having to play care-
taker on Tuesday evening? Too bad he doesn’t
remember any of it.

He was so cute this morning, though.

Financial District --> Shopping District

          --> Hood --> Here

I loved the walk. Then suddenly it dawned
on me that I’d like to have a job in arts
administration.

If I’m looking to the future there’s a finite
amount of time. But he’s a student. He
wasn’t excited to hear from me at all;
seemed glum or just sloppy. I mean
sleepy. I told him that his flat cap
induces melancholy. “It’s blue,” I said, “and now, so are we.”

mmxxv

I often pee sometimes.
                                 —John Ashbery

He was taking the train from New York City
to Boston and reading a gay sex novel. So
now he talks as subversively as he is capable.
As capable as he is subversive. We all know
who canonizes this guy. Or is obviously his
reincarnation.

So here we are. It is the biggest day of our
time. Today’s the day. So I take my anti-
histamine and make sure everything is
appropriate, getting frustrated at all
the right moments, pretending to
take a nap and getting up in 

the morning in time to get 

to the office by 7:00am.

I’ll get up whenever they let me loose.
I mean way more than usual. Of course
my cellphone is a blueberry and my
breakfast is an iPad. It’s a new era,
after all.

He got completely out of sorts
after just a few drinks. I mean
way more than usual.

mmxxiv

                            When you turned I thought
you’ve got to stop me, I’m out of control
but mature, so every step I take
counts.
                                                  —John Ashbery

I don’t know what all I have on me
nor why. By that same token, I have
no idea which pages I should rip out,
and which I should matte, frame
and hang on the wall. Or I’m guessing.

Yes, in case you were unable to guess,
it’s election day again. Tonight, I plan
to read forever to the man I married
while he paints his homework. Which
amounts to somewhere near seventeen

sonnets, total. I call the whole thing
Ambition. Meanwhile, I continue
pasting old photographs of myself
into various collected works which
I find on the shelves of the university
library. Particularly the older ones
that look practically new.

mmxxiii

Some Notes from a Conversation

Negative

Negative

mmxxii

I Broke Even in Barcelona

     See Wife Casually Hire Hit-Man
                                      —CNN.com

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I am such a
shambles. Which is the opposite of phenom. Even

Squiddly Diddly thinks so.
This week I was able to bob for apples without

drowning. It used to be so easy to discover new things
to celebrate. From this perspective antiquity doesn’t

look so hot. Now I think I’m happiest when looking
around for something that’s just a little bit uncomfortable.

Like grapefruit juice for lunch in a glass that I’m not
quite sure has been washed since its last use. But

does this make me a happy person? The opposite
could also be true. As I lie sleeping each night I

can’t get the lyrics of “Dirty Laundry” out of my
head; of Don Henley’s tragicomic/nostalgic/not-

yet-dead voice echoing and re-echoing: Kick ’em
when they’re up! Kick ’em when they’re down!

Kick ’em when they’re up!
Kick ’em all around!