mmcdlxxv

Once More, But This Time Make It Exuberantly Horrible

How can I make the best of any
not-so-seemingly-wonderful-at-
the-time situation? I’ve been told

that more isn’t always better, like
more loud pessimism, and I do have
those educational degrees in theatre.

I concentrate on how to make such of
life’s unexpected trifles into something
much more more horribly exuberant

than, at the time, might even have been
unimaginable by myself, much less by
each of the uneasy participants (witness-

es does not seem the appropriate desc-
riptor in these cases, however unwitting
is something I am most certain comes up

later in their thoughts, as in if only I’d
just walked away earlier, etc.). Anyway,
a lot has happened since then. Like the

moment a tercet seemed better, seemed
somehow more appropriate than any other
means to a sordid end. These moments
happen. Like, all the time. For example,

at Yosemite last weekend (which, now,
I’m wondering exactly who played whom,
with regard to exuberance, that is): “[here
we have a] marshmeadowmountainforest.”
Well, not so horrible, that. But how about,

while driving in circles through the valley:
“Jesus rims” “penguins on the harbor” [so]
“plug in your drunken squirrel immediately!”
I’m not sure what I’m saying about being a
drama queen, much less feeling ugly and
over-the-top, but this actually happened.

What’s so horrible about hilarity? At
least at the expense of Jesus, penguins
who happen to be at the harbor, drunk
squirrels and drama queens? The dark
under-story is often that which was
one of the best times I’ve ever had.

So what?

mmcdlxxiv

I talk dirty to stay alive.
         —Dodie Bellamy

Eye. Ewe. Hee. Chi.

   💥      💥      💥

I lie here, unable to

control my get-up.

On the teevee, the

comedian is telling

the 8-inch pianist

joke again, to the

comedienne host-

ing the Johnny

Carson show

(and therefore

it arrives warp-

edly at us, the

intended audience).

It’s the only joke my

father ever tells (un-

less you count ‘De-

feat of deduct...’) . . .

   💥      💥      💥

Mime. Emery. Myan. Heritage.

mmcdlxxiii

Soon, I Will Not Have Made It.

And this could make me very
sad, surely. But what would
I have done differently, know-
ing soon what I don’t know
now? It’s 4:32pm and I have
yet to write a quick, large
stone across my face. This
morning I say (to myself)
for sure. I will go the gym-
nasium in the evening (for
sure). The day, however,
having wound down....
I’m beat. I’m unwilling.
And, like Tom Hanks, I
hate the internet. No-
thing whatsoever use-
ful in here [hear me
knock that hollow
knock knock]. Read-
something is reading
anything, I say, or
think, or think I say.
Information is time,
and all of the time,
so I have with me
presently a stapler;
it is fancy and red.
If I told you that I
just moved seven
loads of laundry
from washers into
dryers (ploddingly),
only to be locked out
of the laundry room
for the entire week-
end afterwards, would
you care enough to
believe me? Or, per-
haps: “Look, I have
blisters on my toes
from wearing these
gorgeous new flippers!”?

mmcdlxxii

Pig Poem

Doesn’t
this poem
kind of
look like
a tall cat
staring
at you
from
the top
of your 

dresser?

mmcdlxxi

Keep Feeling Need

Today it’s chickens,
ducks and pigeons,
but tonight we’ll
feast on famine,
the familial. I don’t
speak harsh on An
sel, but neither does
the thunder. OOPS!
Did the thunder just
speak(?). . .(?). . . T
hen, after fourteen
chops of pork (not
hen) we were off
to see the mount
and. And what
a true oracle.
But wait (slash/
slash)! Halfway
there we’ve for
gotten our bills—
our auto-mobiles
(on planets such
as Mars). Aw,
the nerd wars!
So it’s a blatant
turnaround that
won’t get us there
any longer. In our
stead, we go no
more. Is that all,
folks? Sing, close
all of your eyes,
and cling to one
another like in
a happy dream.
But the big bad
box wouldn’t
even budge. It
just stood there
all unopened.

mmcdlxx

Nothing Hates Me Worse Than Nobody Does It Better

I can’t stop                                                             Are you alive?
scribbling on                                                           If so, go ahead,
the itch. “                                                               If come. Even meta-
the field aches

                                                                             phorically. Write.
it is only an                                                             Write anyway.
echo of its own                                                        Writing poems
enormity” (L.
Shufran). On                                                           is easy. Write
                                                                              poems are easy
TV, we saw                                                              and feel. The buzz
how we un-
derstood its                                                             saw flickering
own enormity.                                                          through your
                                                                              internal head.

mmcdlxix

The Cat The Canary Ate

I can hear her

right now,

twisting around

on top of my

laptop.  Please,

let it be known

how often I

do not know.

What I’m saying

might not be what

I’m doing; might

not be what laws

I’m simultaneously

breaking.  Smash

me in the mouth

if I get this far

(I ask this with

immediate sin-

cerity, and ever

so gently).

I heard it drop

from her mouth

to the floor be-

hind the door.

I heard you

drop.  I watched

as you dropped,

ever so slowly,

ever so silently,

cold, onto the

flickering

electric

keypad.

mmcdlxviii

Nobody Knows My Names

I’m really

very sorry

that I stole

your new

meme, but

somebody

was going

to do it

anyway.

mmcdlxvii

I laughed until I cried

when she said that
there mayn’t be
any there over
there, but that
there certainly
was a whale 

of it over here.