mmdlxx

The Burnt Sugar Brigade

There’s no way you can feel …

     or

This new Star Wars trailer makes me …

“This has to be the new me,” I write

     today

upon “processed panda poop”

I sweat a few beads while rearranging

     my

makeshift bookshelf

which includes all of the books I’m

     currently

reading (I put it up after we lost the panda.

Or not.) ...

     I

am writing

presently upon a product made

     100%

of “recycled and odorless panda poo”

upon which I find it quite

     difficult

to pen these few, distant words.

mmdlxix

Tune In Tomorrow For My Demise

I’m startled.

Yesterday

I checked out

the new mall

down the hill

which houses

a gourmet grocer

in its basement.

While I’m very

excited about

this fact, it

nevertheless

depressses

me that the

grocer remains

hungry—

almost to

the edge of

starvation—

in that lonely

shopping

center base-

ment for

two

very long

decades.

mmdlxviii

      I was made for loving you, baby,

      You were made for loving me.

                                            —KISS

It was a couple of months

before I even realized that

he was living here with me

(It had been a rough couple

of years).  Can this even be

correct?  Is it summary or

pretext?  Yeah.  It’d been

a really lousy couple of

years, the existence of

which I’d never have

even begun to wrap

my head around,

until then, the couple

of years that lasted

at least a decade,

(and not in a good,

way)....    He always

had to stop at cross-

walks—to either

wait for the green

pedestrian sign

or else to wait

for passersby

to stop and wait

with him.  I write

to total strangers

every day.  No-

body seems to

mind.  But if

caught talking

to myself, or my

computer, or to

a washing ma-

chine, he always

responds.  Often

so abruptly that

I’m startled.

Yesterday

I checked out

(tune in tomorrow for my demise)

mmdlxvii

...I Still Remember Now

tt in 1973, sorry),

then I sauntered

uphill where I

fell promptly

to sleep,

only to

dream of

what remains

of my own dirt-

y laundry, which

you can see air-

ing on the line

presently,

through the

time lapses

or capsules

or glasses.

It must be

one of those

rare moments,

like the first

time we saw

the Scissor

Sisters per-

form (giving

such meaning

to “Live at the

Warfield!”),

a freebie

that

was

loose-

ly ass-

ociated

with

concept-

ual love.

(the end)

mmdlxvi

I Remember Now

We were listening

to Christeene, or,

well, were watching

her latest music video

(Tears From My Pussy).

I was almost finished

with The Corrections

and I’d been attempt-

ing to communicate.

With Kasey.  Regard-

ing Robert Frost (it’s

true!).  Blooming-

dale’s is whatever.

It’s my first time

in flight to NYC,

feeling good (well,

maybe not the first

time at that), try-

ing to do things

besides WORK (

parenthetical

ditto). Right

now I’m on a

conference call

with the other

participants

(e.g., build-

ings pass away:

“O’Farrell…”

“Hotel Nikkei

…” “… a van-

illa latte”) ....

I was in one

of those tall,

cushy chairs

taking in the

“sea of dull-

ness” (that’s

Marlon Brand-

o to Dick Cave-

(please stay tuned for the next installment)