Saturday, December 20, 2014


              my vision is a place
              its ever shifting face
              a waterfall she is
               —Martin Corless-Smith

it used to be
that you were
my favorite face

but now that
you’ve left
my retinas

you cease
lessly burn

Thursday, December 18, 2014


epigraphs for the email poem [or]

               Thy paps lyke lyllies budded, I yearne
               to suck them til my brains doe frye.
                                         —Dodie Bellamy
                                             (from "Cunt Spenser”)

        maybe sandwich it in between these 2 fantastic quotes

               Thy tits are every large cow and they feed me
               sacredly with thoughts of heights be taken.
                                         —Dodie Bellamy
                                             (from “Cunt Shakespeare”)

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


                         You’re out-

                         side of the

       frame.                              You stole

    my idea.                                 And I

        really                               do  ad-
                        mire   you

                        for        it.

Monday, December 15, 2014


 I can’t believe
they put a state
  right   here

Sunday, December 14, 2014


Romantic Painting: Oil on Canvas with Bullethole
                          Hiding tiny ob
                         jects       inside
                         of  a            big
                          hole is     okay
                             but  some
                              times th
                                ey be 
                                /     \


Saturday, December 13, 2014


I keep wanting to say “They eat sheets, these moths!”
But there’s never a clear entrance into that.  

                                                                   She sells
segues at the Non Sequitur.                          (I wish!)

That certainly is a poor excuse for living.  That’s a
lousy lifestyle just waiting to happen.  To which
it is replied:  "Pronounced."  

                                                               Like M-A-N.

Good night, Data Recovery.
Good night, Dada.

And I was thinking, 
                            am I really getting that gray?

(So sad that you’re leaving us, Aunt So-n-So.)

Friday, December 12, 2014


are you defined?

                                                                                                       —the inbox.  my inbox.

define me?  define yourself.
define unabashedly problematic.
aww, your things!  i’m seeking
tired keeping them in my house!
i go to church, tool!  so much so
that I could just GET OUT OF MY
(spoken so by the who who’s
smothering you).  (the who
who’s already smothered
by vandalism.  by infrequent
companionship.  by incantatory
spam.  by general thievery.  &
i have no idea what to do
about that.  do you?  do you?

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


               Sometimes it takes 3
               Introductions for some-
               One to remember you; 1
               Martini works much better
               Nicki is an androgynous name
                                          —Michael Malinowitz

Europe Trip

Tuesday, December 09, 2014


Sunday I cleaned house
while Otto was at lab –
most of the day.  I

found software that I
apparently need and
ordered a new piece

(hardware) for my
dead laptop.  Also,
I got word of $12,000.

A couple of words.
But I’ll try not to
dwell on that

after bickering.
Do not lean on
the bickering,

either.  It was
unusual and

like normal.

Monday, December 08, 2014


Pain, like blue is the
strap of night, the goulash
of darkness...
          —Joseph Ceravolo

Insomnia now.
Each mean word
rings hollow,
echoes in my
head, never
stops ringing,

No more
dance dance.
No more all
is well with
the world.
More apoc-

when will
it end, the
world, this
pain, this
need, this

ness. This

Sunday, December 07, 2014


                    The straw’s
alone, the grave’s alone,
the twitch, the switch,
the bitch’s alone...
          —Joseph Ceravolo

Mixed bag.  Friday night
horrible.  The stranger
who was to fix my lap-
top... no go.  So... I broke
down.  Depressed.

Saturday board meeting.
I walked all the way there.
Then to Hayes Valley for
brunch with Otto at
Absinthe.  He was cute,
trying to cheer me up,

all happy because he
got his income tax refund.

Friday, December 05, 2014


Speaking of holy water, 
the database is now up to 
seventy percent rebuilt.  
It’s been a few hours.  
Last night, I watched 
the Grammys with Otto.
Til around ten, anyway.
Or did I dream this?  No,
surely not.  I remember.
What a bunch of fogeys,
but oddly entertaining.
Okay, no more talk of
last night, of last night’s

This morning I’m feeling
even more fantastic than
yesterday (can I imagine?).
Seemingly over my cold;
ninety-nine percent.  Just
a bit of stuffiness, but Otto
didn’t notice any snoring
(perhaps he was only
dreaming, as well).

[Brief cut to the future,
several years hence:
its redundancy is ob-
literated by his horrify-
ing drowning, gasping 
for two or three nights 
leading to (gasp and gasp-
ing!) failure of heart.]


I’ve been reading a book.
It’s very interesting.  I
remember when I 
used to read only 
one book at a time.

Thursday, December 04, 2014


Dream of confusion with suitcases.
                               —Rachel Blau DuPlessis

This could half describe the
nightmare I am now living.
Only, the suitcases are this
dream’s sanity.  Plenty of

them, too, as we’re off to
Vancouver, we’re off to
Boston, we’re off to Paris;
we’re off to Italy: Roma,

Firenze, Venezia; we’re
off on a Mexican cruise.
Do I wake up?  Do I
ever get to wake

the fuck up?
Au revoir!