mmcdlxvi

Twisted Love Letter Stolen from Lauren Shufran

                                                  —for Lauren Shufran

      |How I Learned to Stop Worrying>

      |and Love (that I’m) the Bomb

mmcdlxv

The Butch Forest

I’ll admit that I’m not

the best at giving dir-

ections.  But I’m most

certainly over-compen-

sated for getting from

here to there.  This,

as the Mini Cooper

slides (emptily)

off the overhang.

What I’m trying to

say (and not in a

good way) is that

I know you and

you know me.

And if all we had

to do every day

was step aside

once or twice

just to get out

of each other’s

way, wouldn’t

you be one

pissed off

witch, too?

So get your

square-toed

boot out of

my Death

Star, you

big black

hole.  And

don’t you

dare go

and “Yes,

sir!” me,
’cuz Mamma 

you know 
I don’t have
a single clue
what I’m even
doing here.  So 
don’t!  Don’t 

you even!

mmcdlxiv

              That’s no figment in my pocket;

That’s a growing pain.

                                 —Lauren Shufran

Please kindly remind me which one

of you is just the pretty face?  And

is it be kind, rewind?  Please kindly

remind.  (I wanted to end there, but)

Desire was tough to come by back in

those days.  She wanted it all.  And

honest.  Who wouldn’t?  She showed

her roses at the county fair late last

year.  Later that night, she shoved her

roses into a tiny mailbox while some-

body somewhere shoved his tiny

berated trip to the moon.  “Them’s

the shakes,” moans nobody, while

shifting gears or slamming on the

brakes.  And who was she kidding

after all.   She still wants it all. 

“And honestly,” we all wonder (just

a tad too audibly), “who wouldn’t?!”

mmcdlxiii

Next + One

Waiter, that’s no fly

in my soup, it’s a

spy in the house

of love!  What I’m

trying so hardly

to tell you is that

there is a Spy.

In the House.

Of Love.  But

in the end

I had only

dreamt that

that was her

name.  So wake

up, you idiot!

“I’d be lying

if I woke up

next to you.”

“I mean I’d be

flying if I woke

up next to you,

Sugarcakes.”  I’d

only be lying if

I were to say

that I didn’t

care which

one of us is

the axe and

which one of

us is the tree. 

“So let’s to the

forest at once,

pretty please!”

mmcdlxii

Why So Sinful (Simple)

I might hate my guts

(and this is no laughing

manor), but I almost

committed regicide

with a little dearth

the other day.  Yes,

Alexander, and, in

Texas (as in all my

exes live in...)!  No-

body does it better

than Candy by

Robbie Williams

(my rendition,

however).  His

rapid fleshless-

ness is excellent,

like Mike when

he counts his

bones.  This

time I really

don’t mean

the boner,

I promise.

mmcdlxi

All Of This Is To Simply Say

It isn’t so simple.  Even on

paper.  “How can I recover

from this?” it asks.  “How

can I recover from this?”

echoes the author.  Hello.

How might I possibly be-

gin to recover from this?

mmcdlx

Such A Tiny Journey

(Which I, By All Means, Extend)

Today is worship day.

Not warship day.

It is neither Saturday

nor Sunday.  Okay, it is

Saturday.  We are all

liars.  I can say this

knowing and not

knowing.

It is not just about

who’s quotable

enough to make

the point for me.

To help point to

something like

a red herring

(what of it?),

or who’s quotable

enough to divert

attention away from

the reel-to-reel,

here, now, then....

Narrative is

like that.  And

it’s almost every-

thing.  And especially

pretty much everything

else.  But in case you’re

working too hard to notice,

or hardly notice anything at all,

“I might turn out a good lyric but

I’m sure to make your dinner

real inedible.”  That’s direct

from Lauren Shufran.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

mmcdlix

An Attempt at Remember (Interlude)

          I Was a Duck; My Schtick was Just to Sit Here

                                                   —Lauren Shufran

Years later, I stayed over.  The next morning

I was completely broken, bawling into my

tiny phone: “Love!”  “Love!”  “One plus one!”

Deliberately.  Twice.  Please don’t let the

floodgates know that he’s not you and that

I’m not me.  I couldn’t believe how sweetly

he responded (how he must have felt!).  Del-

iberately.  I, so utterly occupied, had let go

of the one quality that kept me myself.  What-

ever honest was went for a walk.  Incredibly.

After this, bittersweet juice, as ever.  We’re

faeries at the Ferry Building, a morning show

which actually happens years later, an after-

word.  I’m up at 7:15am.  I’m real.  Real.  And

here he is lying in bed.  Right beside me.  Lying

but not lying.  Real but surreal, or awake, or

aghast, but no, with me, pressed against me

in his way, it has to be.  Or.  Somehow the

warmth permeates from the other side.

Remains in reel to reel.  In conclusion,

the interlude.  I get up sometimes.  And

soon I find myself somewhere.  Famili-

arity dissipates (family disappears);

even as I lie here (I am not lying!). 

Same bed.  Same bedroom, save some-

thing’s glowing.  In the sky, something’s

glowing.  It’s the sky.  No.  The clouds

are glowing this morning.  I’m

in the shadows, having been awake

for a while.  I’m waking up.  The move-

ment of shadow over my face awakens

me from a long dream.  Look how the

clouds are glowing today!  I must go visit

with them.  I’m going to go visit them now. 

mmcdlviii

Self, Other, The Lack of Reason, & The Paradox of Pleasure

Can this just be the interlude?

Can this just be who cares?

Can this please not be heart-

break?  Can this be the story

of how my grandmother came

to be with my grandfather?  For

fifty-something years, yes?  The

ick of hosting an anniversary party

for them at my childhood home;

me, perhaps a high school senior.

Was it their 45th?  In my heart,

and to this day, that was and is

a very big deal.  I might slump

a bit as I type this, but I hold

them up as heroes in that

regard.  The template.  And

the wonder of the why and

especially the how of the how.  

I did not see this through my

teenaged eyes, but from this 

much older pair.  I see with 

verity.  What I,

myself, have sought,

and that which I’ll never 

truly have.  But haven’t I 

lived?  And thusly, such a life 

that both of these heroes would, 

I know, be in awe, so proud 

(well, I am their grandson), if

not even a bit envious....   I left

home soon after for college. 

Papaw passed on, and then

what?  She lived on for

another decade plus.  Even

saw another man (Papaw’s

closest friend, then a widower

due to her--Granny Louise's--

closest friend's passing).  But 

the pain, the declination,

was so furious that I could

never look again through those

loving eyes.  To find equanimity

in the inevitable heartbreak

of a life spent living.  I try to

continue to want this.  I seem

unable to even suppress such

an aspiration.  Even now, with

the stupid grin of such an age,

knowing its impossibilities.

But, yes.  Now more than ever.