Tuesday, September 29, 2015


Twisted Love Letter Stolen from Lauren Shufran
                                                  —for Lauren Shufran

      |How I Learned to Stop Worrying>
      |and Love (that I’m) the Bomb

Monday, September 28, 2015


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
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!

Sunday, September 27, 2015


              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?!”

Saturday, September 26, 2015


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!”

Wednesday, September 23, 2015


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.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015


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?

Sunday, September 20, 2015


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

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!

Friday, September 18, 2015


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. 

Monday, September 14, 2015


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.