Friday, January 31, 2014


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.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014


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!” 

Monday, January 27, 2014


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
chances are
it would be
very difficult
for me to

Tuesday, January 21, 2014


I am starting to really despise
my tone.  If I were still a gemini
I could try a new one, like regret.

Monday, January 20, 2014


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

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.

Saturday, January 18, 2014


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.

Thursday, January 16, 2014


‘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

Wednesday, January 15, 2014


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.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014


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.

Monday, January 13, 2014


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

Sunday, January 12, 2014


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!

Saturday, January 11, 2014


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
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.

Friday, January 10, 2014


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.

Thursday, January 09, 2014



     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?

Wednesday, January 08, 2014


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?”]


Tuesday, January 07, 2014


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

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.

Monday, January 06, 2014


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?

Sunday, January 05, 2014


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.