mmlxxviii

Battle

Sci fi

Sexual innuendo

          I am a neuro-sexual.  Don’t ask me again.

                                                         —Janelle Monae

Okay, so let’s say you’ve been working on this ‘project’

for over a decade now and you’re a stickler for consistency.

First of all (answer quickly!), how many times have you

sat down & read everything all at once just to figure out

what it is.  What it isn’t any more.  And if the whole thing

is as embattled with inconsistency as you think you are.  It

is.  Was.  Is.* 

I was at a reading a couple of nights ago for a book whose

author had the luxury of editing the entire book some

thirty years after its original inception.  Or let’s just say

that’s the case, anyway.  He’s apparently had this opportunity

on more than one occasion.  And on this occasion there were

quite a number of revisions (especially, he noted, compared

with the edits he made on early publications that were reprinted

after many years). Well.  Having no idea how much this

particular section was revised from the original 80’s version,

I can attest that the short story Bob read was nothing

short of sublime. 

*Me, I never have.

mmlxxvii

Your headache was a priority?

I believe in Cher.  Not snarky

comments about how others

lead their (sexually explicit)

lives.  I don’t shop around.

I’m happily married.  Or

would be.  Used to it was

easy.  Now

it’s even more

complicated.  But

this morning (or was it

last night?) I was having

a conversation about how

certain repeated activities

basically scrape or ‘sand

down’ the (surely once-

upon-a-time three-dimensional)

brains of certain repeated acquaint-

ances (some of whom, as it turns out,

we spend lots and lots of time

thinking [and surely that

therefore means ‘caring’] about) ... (

otherwise why would we even

have such way-into-the-night

[or –afternoon] conversations ...

why on earth would I be typing

this muck up while presently

pornography is being looped—

but behind Microsoft Word

on the very large monitor

I use when I want to feel

like I’m doing something

worthwhile?  But, anyway.)

I suppose I shouldn’t worry.

Options always exist.  Especially

when hook-up profiles often

include the (surely judgmental

phrase): “Single is the new

coupled” paired with some

wrincing, tongue extruding

emoticon which

indelibly means “NOT!” 

mmlxxvi

One Wonders If Perhaps He Was Spurned

That would explain a lot of the vitriol,

sure, but what about the IQ level of an

aardvark?  Okay, class, what did you do

with your ideas all summer?  Well, first

of all, besides getting obese, I depart

Vallejo on a ferry to San Francisco one

very pleasant morning while a loved

one, we can call him The Ache of

My Desire, waits for a bus to

take him home from the heart
of San Francisco.  It’s Peter’s

last Christmas on the west

coast and I am losing

whatever sensibility

I ever had or, if not,

being the same react-

ionary adolescent I

always was.  Or

moreso.  If you

chose mental

illness,

chances are

it would be

very difficult

for me to

adequately

prescribe.

mmlxxv

I am starting to really despise

my tone.  If I were still a gemini

I could try a new one, like regret.

mmlxxiv

Does Anybody Know a Good Psychiatrist?

I have so much to do and yet I

squander the day.  Which is still

a little bit more fun that pilfering

it.  But anyway, you know me,

I have to read the entire book.

Aloud!  But it is so very cloying.

Enough about me.  Let’s speak

telepathically.

Tonight I have three parties to

attend, along with getting the

silverware drawer repaired

and the heater removed (I

do live in San Francisco,

but on the third floor).

As if that explains every-

thing.  To which: no response.

So I was so exhausted after

meeting up with a no-show

that I went home and wilted

in bed into dreams that I was

rolling over and over a bed of

red tulips in celebration of

something.  Then, for the

first time in weeks, I pass out

next to someone who is

“worried” about his “projects” –

he wants a winter break so I

toss & turn all over him.  Well.

Now I have a tummyache.

I hope that all three of the

parties have been great

fun and very worthwhile.

mmlxxiii

I have a feeling there’ll be some

surprises.  But this time it’s just

me, calling to see if you’re okay.

Are you okay?  Good.  I think I

might be.  Hanging up (which

is no longer a hang-up), I try

to assess whether or not that

qualified as overwhelming.

I try to find a comfort zone

among the quiet but if feels so

sub-par.  That sounds dumb.

It’s the season of finishing up

and I am just too sappy for it.

Is plotting Christmas okay

over there?  I wish I knew

why I must dwell on this,

whether I am doing any-

thing worthwhile, and

what would help me

get to the gym.

mmlxxii

‘People won’t remember what they fought about.’

                                                   —Mei-mei Berssenbrugge

I don’t want to overdo it, do I?

Pass the Durkee’s.  And repent.

                                —John Ashbery

mmlxxi

All About My Mother

I’m reading an e-card from

someone who never returns

phone calls.  I’m twenty

pages away from being

done with it.  Edna St.

Vincent Millay has

depressed me

terribly.  Perhaps I’ll

spend the rest

of the day in bed

absorbing my

blankets.  Except I

just got a text about

a text about someone

I don’t know who just

died.  Wait, let me make

sure.  The rest of the

afternoon has been

more than a day.  Right? 

I re-watch a film by

Pedro Almódovar, one

of my favorite movies,

but something puts me

off about it this time.

mmlxx

Whose Bed Is Squeaking?

It’s a shame the dogs have to

bark all at once like that.  And

for such a prolonged period.

I love how you are so rhythm-

ically diverse.  When I was

growing up, we also had

relatives who raised hens

and breakfasted quite often

before dressing ourselves

for school or for church.

My favorite couples are

those that are extreme

opposites.  In both size

and demeaner.  How

about we each take

time to find some-
thing stupendously 
large and billowy 

to dissolve into.

mmlxix

It must be noon on Tuesday.

It was Brokeback Mountain on Sunday

followed by King Kong with a big light-

ning storm.  It was quite a sight.  Later,

as we sat down to update the expense

report, we tried holiday strategizing.

Or was it stargazing?  Whatever the

case, what a plot!  I am not coming up

with much of anything because it

turns out that neither of is a pilot. 

But saving up for mom’s visit

and also for the east coast and

Cologne.  “Have you downloaded

enough?” I ask myself.  There’s no

reply.  Later, I got coaxed into

working out weekly (Wednesday

evenings) this next year, which will

not be The Year of Decadence. 

Out of courtesy, I’ve waxed my

self into corking the subject.

Later, I try to convince

myself that vanilla

latté works better

than bloody

mary.  No
further
comment.

mmlxviii

Take me, then, to the licentious decade!

It’s a small cake but you nevertheless

get the feeling that something could

very well pop out of it at any moment. 

I am really digging all of the jokes

about the Boy Scouts of America. 

I don’t mind saying this because

I myself was scout.  The sad kid

staring out through the tent flaps

at a pasture glazed with a coat

of snowy ice or icy snow.  What-

ever the case, it’s still mostly just

ice.  Was that you dreaming about

a golf course for a back yard?  A

dime a dozen, I say, thinking

further about the many others

longing for games of two in one

hole.  But take a look around.

This could just be the licentious

decade?  Whatever the case,

I say we just live it.  Has it

happened all before?  Is it

happening now?  Could it

really only be our first time? 

Boohoo!  Snooze!

Oh, Sunday afternoon!

mmlxvii

Situated, you must sell something, become boutique.

                                                                 —Jackqueline Frost

Revelry.  Today I’ll just make it all up.

But it wasn’t the treasure hunt we’d

all hoped for.  “What if I just flushed

you down the toilet?” ... No response.

It is nearly the noon hour and my

heartache is appropriate.  Dressed

as if ready for any occasion, we

hop into the cab, the three of us.

I did a bazillion loads of laundry

until ALL THE LAUNDRY IS DONE.

Then what?  I don’t think I even

took a nap.  Would that I were

medicating on something like

music.  Even the soundtrack

to a pornographic master-

piece.  Instead, I lie like a

thousand bookbags in

bed eating orange

flavored tic tacs.

Much obliged.

mmlxvi

What It Becomes

We could go on tour with our ‘comedy routine’

just to make people uncomfortable.  It’d be great!

Please, you can be honest, don’t hold back. 

And that was the end of that discussion.  This came

with a discreetly attached note that said, simply:

      Please advise, asswipe.

Mind’s in a jumble; emotions scattered.  It is not

poetry.  And everything you say sounds too

expensive anyway.

mmlxv

MARKETING STRATEGY

     Two hookers and a box of chicken

                         —someone’s ‘ultimate fantasy’ (overheard)

I am trying on this new lack of denial

and it hurts really bad (I think I got

the wrong size, hah hah [rollz eyes]).

I think Jeffree Star’s new song, Love

to My Cobain is perfect pop, but I

think he missed an opportunity

with the second line of his chorus.

I’ve been singing it all day like it

really should be:  You are the Love

to my Cobain ain ain ain ain ain;

the Kurt to my Blaine aine aine

aine aine aine.  Which leads me

to ask:  “Honestly, how deep into

my own thoughts do you really

want me to go?”  But come on,

where else would I go, really? 

[slight pause]  The character

that you’ve been developing

is itching like mad to argue

with the character that I’ve

been developing.  So now

that we’ve accomplished

what we set out to do

all those years ago

can we just go

home now?

mmlxiv

On Being Mistaken for a Nihilist

Please remember that I will most assuredly

be dead by the time you receive this memo-

randum.  Do not hang up, as you will find

explicit instructions on how to access my

memory databanks at the end of this

message.  After sleeping on all of this

once or twice you will find that

history does not lie.

[“Can somebody tell me how to turn this

f*!king camera off?!”]

I have a new ‘productivity’ app that’s

called Wunderlist – not sure about its

name, but perhaps the allusion is to

wanderlust, as in to keep me focused

on my list and not on...wanderlust?

That’s the best I can do with that.

[“Can it really actually be the

middle of the month already?”]

Summertime

mmlxiii

The Air In Here Is Fresh

Or at least it smells that way.  Can you teach me

how to make that same thing happen in other

locations?

Each mourner was greeted with a smile at the

mortuary entrance.  Gosh, our thoughts

don’t look so good anymore, do they?

Congratulations on your new business!

As a gift, I’ve taken a picture of your

company’s first piece of junk mail.

Does anyone know what time this

started?  I seem to have lost

my program.

mmlxii

The Air Is A Fish

       Grew up a screw-up

       But bucked up a fuck-up

                         —Evan Kennedy

My nasals are clogged, but when my favorite crush

posts “Welcome to Paradise!” I feel a tingle of hope.

“Desperation is like that!” – I can almost hear your

smart-ass response with the drone of the bingo

announcements in the background (“B8!” ... “G50”

... “I19”).  The lady with a voice that really pesters

(It’s almost a screech.  Our thoughts move down

to the Latin section, first floor ... ) as the clock

chimes the half hour.  Reminder:  put decon-

gestant on the list.  Has it come to this:

Reminders of reminders?  At Target

we almost purchase a card game

in which players read ‘gibberish’

written on cards and have their

opponents make guesses

based on what they

thought was said.

But the ‘gibberish,’

it turns out, is written

to sound like a specific

identifiable phrase in

English.  [should insert

an example here] 

What’s the fun

in that?

mmlxi

The time to go home has been now.

                                   —John Ashbery

At the party the chuckles were

contagious; but the laughter

was infectious.  We thought

that was okay.  However,

an hour or so after we get

home, I’m told that I should

shut the bedroom window

whenever I laugh.  People

have happy dreams, I say.

Ok ok, he says.  My hand

is cramped into the

American Library’s

Anthology of American

Poetry, Twentieth

Century, Volume I.

Friday after

shopping around a bit,

Otto gave me a haircut. 

Then we met up

with Mr. Empty

(nicknamed so because

his bottle or drinking

glass always is) who

proceeded to buy us

a bunch of drinks. 

We drank fast at his

request and danced

for a couple of hours. 

Drunk, we kept

fielding requests for

smooches (we said ‘of

course’), and a very tall

older guy (not so much a

gentleman) basically

dance-humped us

for hours til we

piled into a cab and

immediately passed out.