Monday, June 29, 2015


   weeds we’d have been were it not a
melon patch we were in....
                               —Nathaniel Mackey

Happy Hippie Hill Day!  Needless to say,
I’m excited.  I’m giving each of the
Painting Ladies (a wonderful new twist that
I just caught quite inappropriately) personal
names.  By me.  This one’s Hello, Mister
Boyfriend.  And next to him is Jonah Hill
Is No Christian Bale.  It’s true.  All at once
(and one with) relaxation, a modicum of
technique (how to lie down on a sparsely-
sunlit, mildly moist angle of grass traversed
by more dogs than humans), and no bottled
water (can’t afford, stupidly didn’t bring).
I almost manage to snooze a few minutes
after finishing two books I began a couple
of years ago (plus took a selfie with the
poem that made me cry a little bit).  One
is a book of prayers by someone who doesn’t
pray but seems to sincerely desire to do so
(a whole book built around this, and if
crying indicates goodstuff, it worked in
there somewhere).  Perhaps this one I
actually began only a month ago.  Was
it a Christmas present?  Or just a random
gift that appeared in conjunction or in
the vicinity of the holidays?  I can’t
remember.  But the poem about being
picked up at the hospital as a teenager,
puking drunk, or drunk puking, but
mainly fine, by a father who worked
all night in a bar, who tucked her into
his automobile, and brought her to
work, a foreign place she’d never
once set foot in before; him wrapping
his arms around a trio of monster-size
maraschino cherry jars, gentle and
joyous as if they were newborn
triplets:  the music is gorgeous!
The sun is out.  The spring lures
me in before I sneeze a little to
greet it.  I spend my evenings
with Monsieur Baron Joie de
Vivre (I’ve named a Painting
Lady for him, too), and I
really must do this again
sometime very soon.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Saturday, June 27, 2015


I Can Do All Of This On A Virtual Piece Of Paper

This is just a means of keeping it alive.  Make it
anything you want (friendship, collaboration,
evolution as human, love, creation, ideation).  So
why set the default for crises at retreat?  Who

knows how to keep it?  It.  Can anyone help
with how to keep it?  It’s okay.  I understand.
On an apologetic note, I went to bed with your
bag of wavy Lay’s.  Sorry for eating every last

chip.  Not to excuse the gluttony, but I was either
drunk or sleeping or both.  But you already know
all of this.  Today is all about chowder.  Today.

I don’t mean to startle you when I mention that
I’ve started a list.  But I have.  I sit here penniless
after spending millions of dollars purchasing the

proper equipment to do so.  And I don’t use proper
equipment (I forget).  But it’s perfectly fine by me
if you look at me funny when I screw it all up again.

Friday, June 26, 2015


That Said Nothing

Loves to disintegrate
the horrible feelings.

Doesn’t love calling
it a weekend.  Doesn’t

love the most difficult.
Palm Springs and cham-

omile. I have never been
so confused (speaking

as if to the tea, to the
trees).  I feel like my

life is moving to Texas.
Damned despondency.

I feel naked and so out
of the city. Which could

mean I steamed it up
(stop crying) after an

explosive breakfast
with Loves to Diminish.

Sunday, June 21, 2015


Poem to Nowhere (with Wolves)

Stupidly, I fail to mention
my happiness. One mouth
plus one week plus maybe
another week by now.  Some
people collect hearts.  I give
mine away.  In pieces.  I am,
however, surviving okay like
this, see?  Well.  Right at this
moment.  With the grinding,
etc.  But I feel art (as I eat a
french fry).  An attempt to
dig out of the French poodle.
I have to get myself wrapped
up and out the door, somehow.
The number one reason to wrap
oneself up in a pub (and not a
poodle) is that the high is so
incredibly cosmopolitan.

Saturday, June 20, 2015


Poem With No Patience

I said that I stopped using
words, but the other side is
I have yet to learn how to

read.  I pick up the book
How a Wheel Works. 
Apparently, love isn’t

the only battlefield
in this sleepy café.
It is a gray day.

On this gray day,
I want to write
everything down

from my trip to
Palm Springs last
weekend.  But

I’m not feeling
so hot.  Did I really
go see a movie with

Jennifer Aniston
instead of eat lunch?
Not with Jennifer,

I decide, but with
Erin.  Yes, a movie.
I get up at the end

and shout about
therapy, or at least
medication.  As I

descend the escalator
that leads back to the
office, I think how

this experience will
perhaps significantly
enhance my life. Am I

coming or going?  I miss
my exit, and I’m only on
page 8, so I guess I’m gone.