mmdcxcv

Saturday Morning Scurvy

It seems to me, or, I have it quite
pronounced in my mind that nothing
written (and hardly anything that
purportedly happened) before the
late 19th Century amuses me at all,
except Shakespeare and Aristophanes.
While I was an academic actor and
studier of all things theatre for many
years, I always wanted a seriously
serious dramatic role. And on those
rare occasions when I would be cast in
one (there were only to be two or three,
in the end, it seems to me), I inevitably
found them quite tedious, which, in turn
diminished my desires and my hopes of
becoming a “famous” star on a soap opera,
most hopefully, of course, on Days of Our Lives,
or The Young and the Restless, both of which
I have memories of watching with my mother
at age 3 or so upward. I came to realize that the 

life of a ribald actor (even with the occasional little
death of absurd silence which would occur some 

evenings during a scene where the audience would 

be on the floor the following evening) was for me.
Comedy. The sound of gasps and spurts,
followed by uncontrollable laughter were divine.
So, being a student of theatre I’d often have to read
plays set before the twentieth century, and I’d
constantly wonder where on earth the laughter
occurred, if ever, when they were originally performed,
as I flipped ho-hum from page to page. I’d be told a line
would be hilarious to the attendees. I was befuddled. But
I’ve always considered myself a now kind of guy, if not
way too into the present, to any given present. This
explains, perhaps, why in 1991-1992, I devoted my
masters’ thesis to covering the subjects of post-
modernism, using as splendid examples (and a
colorful backdrop) the works of opera director
Peter Sellars’ adaptions of the Mozart-da Ponte
operas: Don Giovanni (set in a Bronx slum),
Le Nozze di Figaro (which was set in Trump Tower)
and Cosi fan tutte (set in a diner). I even had the
opportunity to participate in Peter Schaffer’s wonderful
stage production of Amadeus. So, not to tag on a moral here,
but, now that I think about it, it seems to me from these skewed
experiences of mine that Mozart was pretty hilarious. And he
lived well before the late 20th century. Ah, things in retrospect.
Who we become is never who we think we are, anyway.
I stand corrected.
Go figure.

mmdcxciv

                        ...emptiness is a kind of speed moving
slowly with extreme consciousness.
                  —Susie Timmons

             Obviously our heroes are conglomerating.
             Where, my dear, did I ever learn to write?
Sentences, I mean? How can anyone
appreciate me, much less tolerate it?
And to the point of gung-ho? I, too, want
to put a sign on the wall of my office
(which is also, appropriately enough,
my bedroom) with the word INFANTILISM!
Maybe I will do just that. But to what end?
To show that nobody knows a damned thing
in this world; that supposed ‘progress’ or a
positive form of ‘evolution’ is no sure thing;
or, to reiterate, that we are simply
(as a people, as a world, as individuals)
just babies. In the whole grand scheme of
what? He said something to me. Such as,
“You just gonna lie there with your money
all day?” Or perhaps it was I who said it,
both of us being infants. Nothing else 

happened for the rest of the afternoon.

mmdcxciii

Love is a pain in the ass

isn’t clear anymore.

mmdcxcii

My Own Personal . . .


                        . . Platform;
                          . . Jesus;
                            . . G a n g p l a n k




                                                         ? 

                                                         ?
                                                         !

mmdcxci

     I have pictures of the empty room. 

                              —Laura Moriarty

Back then, I took stock in fear and adrenaline. 

Half of the reason that changed was the $1,000 

phone bill (half yours) which you left me after paying
for well over a year and giving me absolutely no indication
that you’d disappear, and that promise that you would ensure

I was okay.  You left.  Cold. Never spoke with me again. Your
ghost/no-ghost would raise its ugly head and only I would know
its reality. Partially. Enough.  I’ve watched movies
aplenty about these things: but ghost
stories vanish, too. Or transition into 
something much more terrifying than
what they were in retrospect - into nothing; into perform-
ance?  Into a game during which I was disqualified in its early stages.

Only nobody told me.  I happily participated.

The four circles that made a square that appeared on a
nearby garage door have sort of disappeared.  It reminded

me of another death, a more real one (or is it less real?).

Boy, would I love a massage....

The show goes on, however, as it must. It must. The show.
I’ve generally encouraged such drama (yes, did you honestly think
that I didn’t know?) clutched onto intense belief systems only to
watch them dissipate like the Andromeda. These things happen, 

I know them.  Do ghosts know current events, or care that 

Donald Duck is now the Emperor of the World Federation, which were 

actually the bad guys all along. It’s a world full of surprises even for an 

old man who seemed to constantly catch falling chandeliers. And my 

existential crisis. It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist, right?. And

this is not cinema, which I do recall as a place we went to escape.
The reality of it all is Star Wars. And every night slogging alongside
the melee until morning.  Also, the paper kind of cash, which we all 

relied upon obsessively.

I’m not sure where this is coming from or why I’m even telling 

you, but for some reason it amuses me to do so.  And reminds me 

that the future is all mine, after all. Who on earth would have been 

listening to that noise? How appropriate in a world that’s mine, that

I can find no place to grab onto.  Perhaps it’s perfect that you are naught

but spirit – and a spiritless naught at that....Ooh, the spit and

slither of spiritless spirit. Do things sometimes actually work 

themselves out appropriately? If only? You were a glorious and 

tricky vacuum of spirit. A black hole through which I fell.  A trip

that will always be healing as long as life persists. 

October, which always breaks my heart never looked quite as dashing 

as it does this year, unlike the bully it was. The bully it begat.  I mean, 

relative to the infamous eleven months, which (from widening 

distances. . . past), at worst only dourly come and go. What am 

I left with? Oh, substance. I do not apologize for bringing that up.

But you’re spirit, I’m flesh. That is that. These days we learn 

that even the lifeless are tortured. A gas chamber for ephemera? 
There are many days that, for some, are neither holidays
nor birthdays. October, October, October...BOO!!  Oh I hope I 

got you again.  It always makes me remember being bowled over 

with laughter.  But I know that you are only here and never here 

simply to remind me that the joke is still and always on me. 

I know because I see only one of us.  Bowled over.

mmdcxc

Whatever It Is, It Isn’t

clear anymore. Furniture
that reaches out to you
in the middle of the
afternoon on a night
when you need desp-
erately to go to the
bathroom to pee
or to the kitchen
to guzzle a pint
of ice water.
“Wake up,”
laughs B’rer
Rabbit as he
dives into the
patch of black-
berry briars below,
“come along with me
this instant. It’s an
adventure!” And
then he disappears.
I’ve even the bloody
scratches to prove it.


               this poem is inspired by Susie Timmons’ “Into the Stickers”
               and the following Google Link Titles, neither of which I ever bothered to click:
           a) Brambles Gone Wild: How to Remove Blackberries – Tall Clover Farm
           b) How to Eradicate Blackberry Bushes; and
           c) How to get rid of blackberries – YouTube

mmdclxxxix

I’ve Got the Keys to a Brand New Saturday

So hop in
if you’d
like to 

ride.

mmdclxxxviii

We stare at each other like ghosts of another century
                                                      —Ronald Palmer

“It could be they are from separate centuries,” Ron’s
written word whispers to me (without ink, should I add?).
“Instead of two ghosts, say, from the 17th century, Which
isn’t ours?” No response. At least for a while. And then
I clearly hear “Hours? Two, that is precise and correct.” I’ve

not just been dreaming (I’ve said this aloud while sitting
up sharply in my weather-worn bed. In this dreamlessness –
and with this quick snap from lying prone to becoming a ninety
degree angle and with a voice I am certain – because there’s
that stolen sentence lying there without much discretion,

Tucked away amid other words in them, The solid book
held firmly within the grip of both of my hands and now,
directly above us, an epigraph, so to speak. I intro-
duce to you this, my story. Anyway, as I might’ve
already said.... Black gold sinks heavily into many

hundreds of thousands of acres of a place called U.S.A.
circa the early 2000s. This becomes the hub (and the
hubbub) of some importance at the time. I can’t be
certain why. Perhaps Ms. Notley knows (and I swiftly
scribble a note to myself to inquire something to that

effect). I’ve an infection of the pancreas. Or maybe
it’s the liver. This becomes important at the time.
I’m not sure why. Scholars of history (and, therefore,
of every subject once known trying to fit into a pair of
academia) often distributed history books as auto

biographies. This is known. This was obvious
to all but most. In a world where, nearby, say,
in the next galaxy and unbeknownst to the tepid
inhabitants of all of this rather deviant rogue
of a planet’s tepid inhabitants (which included

the fevered, the feeble, and the dead, as well as
those who most often worked at will [and a few,
legend has it, unwillingly, or at least subconsciously]
slicing and dicing the so-called earth, clearly part
icipating in its early demise ... [a small coughing sound

is heard from several audience members]) ... anyway,
as I mentioned earlier to one in particular, nearby, say
in an adjacent galaxy, who'd never heard tell of this rogue
of a planet’s surly inhabitants (the fevered, the feeble,
the dead, and the so-called ‘toiling’— all murder[er]s,

and mutter[er]s, mind you.  Anyway, as I might’ve already said...

mmdclxxxvii

  Indigestion

    (later that
   same night)

A pain in the ass
is worth two in the
bush doesn’t even
begin to hack it
until you try it!
Get it? I’m so
happy for you.
(If only I got it....)
Eating escargot
[late drum riff,
awkward giggles]
at the conference,
I thought of Rome,
where the hallway
entrance was made
completely of the
animals we and
our favorite rest-
aurant’s guests
would profoundly
digest later, during
bouts of uneasy
sleep. We would,
earlier, of course,
finally eat. Per-
haps because we
were so alive then.
It was a five-star
entrance, that
hallway. We were,
as they often say
in Bolivia, super-
duper-entranced.

mmdclxxxvi

misother brother

“don’t do that!”
he says, meaning

enter the trans
america pyramid

tower     all out
of shape     sees

worried fav
orite entry

doorway to the 

other shore