mmcdlxxxv

I anachronism writing as if I believe I recall something
                                                                   —Susan Gevirtz

Unable. Unnamable. It
was like that. I recognize
the face of he who does
not sound like a decent

person. It is not simply
that we frolic. I have
just come to know
better than to different-

iate so cleanly, better
than to leave first and
second (and third)
impressions anything

but malleable, just a
thing to work with.
The have of a wonder-
ful time predates the

sausage. It predates
the elements within,
which reach back
as far as the elements

without. I grew up
half a block away
from the element-
ary school with no

kindergarten, no
radon on its singular
periodic table. And
despite our bouts

with rabies from the
occasional rusty nail,
oxidization did not
exist in those days;

and American flags
weren’t the only
things fondly wav- 

ing each other down.

mmcdlxxxiv

Nearer Dying

It’s Easter.
All colored
with eggs.
A chorus of
empty carts
are piled
near the
garbage.
Er. The
garbage.
The garbage
is us. Acco-
lades of
rotten eggs,
our breakfast,
to see us up
and out this
particular
mourning.
No stone gets
unturned, we’re
thinking, as we
rise to the occasion. 

Or get raised for it.

mmcdlxxxiii

Thud

At Target, I need to pee.
Important things keep
vanishing like cowards.

The waitress spends
part of an afternoon
looking for a therapist.

Coming down for air,
pronouncing it with-
out any teeth, on our

last legs, we each
blink loudly, un-
like memory, which,

notwithstanding,
still has its original
two legs and knows

how to use them,
bites like a granny
apple, and shows up

like irreverence.
Someone crawling
around with a

loudspeaker has
the nerve to use
it. True or false,

this experience
makes the current
Target, its location,

irrelevant? No one
is here. It’s sum-
mertime in San Fran-

cisco: go now (not-so-)
young man and fall fool-
ish and stupid in love!

mmcdlxxxii

Nothing goes well this week,
and for good reason, I think.

The sun’s mostly down. The
‘underwear party’ is at 550

Barneveld. The waitress at
Lori’s who keeps repeating

bananana is still working
at Lori’s. We still call every-

thing bananana at Lori’s.
We still used to call out

for banananas. I’d give
anything for one about

now. Feel free to take
that any way you want

to take it. I think too
much and hope for

nothing more than
a hello. My target:

to be beautiful. At
Target, I am beautiful,

but I really need to pee.
Things vanish, like memories,

thud, just like that. I spent
too much on the best part

of an afternoon, which
lasts for most of winter

and pretty much all of 

spring. Summer love....

mmcdlxxxi

     A way of remembering thinking
     A way of remembering is thinking 
                                            —Susan Gevirtz

I urge us all to drink and dance,
or at least dither. No one will
listen to me anyway, they’re
not having any of this. Which
makes it all mine. Mine and
mine alone? One or the other.
The hunger has subsided. Cof-
fee’s good for that. In fact, stop-
ping here at the Language Pool
first was an overall excellent
idea (where else base my
existence, my overarching
priority lists, my goals, and
the day-to-day?)! I could
easily turn another page.
Such redundancy really
does keep me revved.
However, time always
finds me here.  [Shh! 

I’m on the lam, you 

see.] Oh, hello, I

almost forgot you
were here. What good
soul does to minimize
boring can be a lot like
needling a haystack.
I point several directions
at once. The crazies call
me rude. And they’d
know. For that I’m
truly sorry. Go that-
away, I say, pointing
everywhere all at once:
feeling duped; the hay-
stack; the pleasantries;

the seagulls.

mmcdlxxx

I attempt the tango.

     If I had it to do all over again, I think I would
     choose a career in the sex industry.
                                                    —Franz Wright

This was supposed to be fun.
I wish that I could say that I
don’t pay so much attention
to my environment. As I
scrutinize everything with-
in my purview, I segue into
the plan for tonight: cooking
dinner for everyone. I’ve
been so utterly happy lately
(don’t look—I’m rolling my
eyeballs all the way back
towards my brain again).
But I’ve found a remedy
for happiness. Overtime
creates negative space.
Whoops! Be careful not
to complain. But if you
do (ah, bachelorhood),
the top of my list is
going to be therapy.
He’s a brutal boy,
overwhelmingly.
Also, I’m waiting,
cruising, so much
further than ever
before (overwhelmingly,
you silly pilot!).... Also,
I’ve gone green (like gays
everywhere; I’m such a
follower). Or is it guys
everywhere? Thank you
for not being alone and
depressed on Sunday night,
peering into Castro Station
at the bitter end of Pride
Weekend, which is an
oxymoron, like me
passing out afterwards.
Currently, I’m passing out
flyers for a dying dragon.
And Lady Sinatra’s boots.

mmcdlxxix

“N41”. . . “B6”. . . “B10”. . .

Playing bingo on my phone,
I realize, is at the top of my

list. I crush on this for a
good while. These days,

I pay much less attention
to my environment (on the

whole) – I find it much
more comforting to

focus on something
small, something most

anyone else might find
insignificant. In the

middle of each game
I receive a phone call

from a toll-free number,
which of course I ignore,

am even bothered by, as
it interrupts the flow of

the game. All is, app- 

arently, not well.

mmcdlxxviii

Blitzy’s School of Magic

I met him today for lunch.
We went to Gaylord (the
Indian restaurant in the
Embarcadero Center
with the unfortunate
name). I said it’s all too
much. But I’ll change my
life to accommodate. No
problem. Anything he
wants. Lucky me, right?
Do I turn 29 in less than a
week? Or 15? I’m asking
for real, so please don’t
laugh, because I don’t like
a lot of what I’ve been feeling
lately. This might possibly
have something to do with
birthdays, which bother me
less and less each year (birthdays
have never been the problem, un-
less you count 28 and 39, but still...).
I find that I live in a universe where
distinct and extinct are synonymous;
that I’m very tightly wound; that I find
myself dividing (slowly) into several
pieces I cannot tell apart (although I am
assured by others that each separate part
opposes each of the other partial selves,
the non-selves, which seem to be nearing ex-
tinction, but again...). To find that each of
me is a wound exploding with words at which
others either nod, give puzzled lucks, quickly
run away from, or do all three in simultaneity
means that tomorrow I will write something like:
“Actually, I’m okay today.” This will be true.
Is true. And I will even believe it as I write it 

down. I do. That this thing that I am here
writing to you is something quite like truth.

mmcdlxxvii

I am powerless to the lie.

I lie here
hating on
the internet.

When it’s use-
ful to anyone,
why bother?

If that were
really my person-
ality, I’d have

a free lunch
by now: a Quiznos
turkey sandwich, say.

...Why can you
never go hungry
in the desert?

Because of the
sandwiches there.

mmcdlxxvi

The Horribly Exuberant Interlude

I was home. I was angry. I was,
as they say (meaning, of course,
as I’m saying...as I’m saying, I was),
stressed out. Sleeping came, but
only in fits and spurts (and not
the good kind). I’m not known
to sleepwalk, there are many
folks who would or could come
forward as witness, easily,
if I were a sleepwalker, so
the evidence is stacked
against that notion, but I
found on Saturday morning
that I’d walked all the way
to someone’s place, let’s say
we’d been more than just
acquainted even before this
exuberant incident. I crawled
into bed with him (see, I am
remembering). What followed
was fun, quite nice (ah, memory!).
When next I awaken, my first thoughts
aren’t very comfortable. I can recall
this pleasant, very chill, very free-
flowing timespread from the previous
night with ease, but it is evident to me
that it has gone, that it will have dis-
appeared, everything about it. How
wonderful it was in those moments,
how easy, normal, and momentarily
infinite. Disappearing acts make me
sad. One hundred eighty degree
shifts, just like that. Infinite. In-
finitesimal. This produces an
increase in negative space and
reduces capacity. Why, I wonder,
did I keep thinking, keep writing
“horribly exuberant,” when I was
simply trying to erase reality? To-
day’s subject is horrible. Our topic 

for this week is going to be death.

and here is another recording just for fun: