mmdccxxx

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mmdccxxix

I’m Taking This Nipple With Me

This convention paperwork
is for the birds. But the
birds are mine. So. Well,

here I am, once again, in the
middle of a conversation
in which all words are neutral.

I remember political correctness.
I was arrogant enough to be in-
credibly annoyed by it, this im-

perative residue of bigotry; of
any civil rights progression.
“Aren’t we over the need

for this nonsense? Aren’t we
well beyond this?” I would
argue. I certainly believed

that I was. “And who wants
homogenization, anyway (ex-
cept in milk…)?” Today, that

naïveté churns my gut. Love
exists and exits as if it were
too invaluable to even knock

on your door. Not every word
is a lie (another subject), a con-
descension; every utterance

does not derive from malicious
intent. These tits were made
for walking, I surmise. And

every single word is one
hundred percent neutral.
Period.

mmdccxxviii

I Talk Too Much

Meanwhile, there was

one stolen backpack.
Three and a half months.
Would this be funny from
any perspective? Can time
exist long enough for some-
one to discern? All I can see
is what is no longer, until I
then lose sight of what I had
(in actuality: days ago, months
ago, years ago). And who I was.
Who I am? Who am I? A reminder
pops up on my tiny computer screen,
(which is my iPhone, where I currently
type this. My only computer...):
Manicure. Where on earth did that
come from, I wonder. See? I have
forgotten nail salons, bars, night
clubs, dancing (?!), being casual,
the joy of working (yes, in producing
paid work I know joy!). “You get to
completely start over; reinvent!”
But why is that a positive thing,
exactly? And how many times must
I begin again (please never like this,
if so!)…. One might say any singular
moment poses such a grand (grand-
iose) opportunity. One might say that.

mmdccxxvii

Negative Space

2 iPhone 6
cellphones – each
less than one
month old

a couple of
two terabyte
drives; one w/
a lifetime of
downloaded
(and most all if it
paid for) music
and the other
w/over 100 yrs
of digital (the
older ones
obviously
scanned from
originals) photos

a large black
rolling suitcase
(unknown brand)
which contained
this list of items 

stolen on 2nd 

night of being

homeless, 

sidewalk

robbery 

on Mason

near Sutter

all 5 bottles of my
prescription meds
which could not be
refilled soon enough
for the furniture move
to the storage unit

2/3rds of everything
accrued over a life-
time — of which the
13 most recent yrs
were spent on Nob
Hill in an apartment
I called home —
where, during my scheduled
attempt to remove my
belongings, I was ass-
aulted by the apt mgr
(who refused to allow
me to go to the emer-
gency room as I was

attempting to do so—

it had all become way
too much for me 

to handle)

various clothes, inc
many t-shirts, dozens
of coats and jackets,
the beautiful table
from the kitchen,
as well as my old-
est piece of furniture,
the marble table in
the hallway, well over
a hundred works of art,
one large box of memo-
rabilia w/items from most
every year of my life

all gone

& also,
3 door-drops of shoes,
all of which fit me, inc
several pairs of work/
dress shoes, the loss
of which would be
the source of severe
blisters for two months

one 10-yr-old cat named
Coco the Loco, who, like
me, had lived for over
a decade in an apart-
ment (#35) at the
intersection of
Pine & Mason,
San Francisco,
California.

Be happy, and/or RIP, dear Coco the Loco (my companion, 2007-2017)

mmdccxxvi

Well, if you are going to go to the
trouble of chivalrously beating up a guy –
or flat-out attempting to break your
arm over his head – you should break
your arm over his head. Or something.
What’s a pacifist to do when someone
stands up for you like that; when some-
one is such a sweetheart? We must really
love liking one another. “I really like you.”
“I really like you, too.” Or something. With
your proclamation you probably placed your
hand neither firmly nor gently on the cheek
of my ass. I dramatically squeezed my face
and attempted a show off shock with “You’re
crazy!” There are moth-eaten ways in which
we do love each other without trust. Everyone
here is a hustler. Trust is not an option. Like?
Love? It is not reduction to call these words
quite inevitably “relative” (as they say). Who
took whose whatever is one of the very few
possible headlines you might find in the morn-
ing, or whatever time you read (if you do, in-
deed, read). The other main topic is bedbugs.
This one took up an entire ‘resident’s monthly’
a couple of weeks ago. It was the only one
I have attended thus far, and likely will re-
main so. It is advised to maintain an unidenti-
fiable sexuality. Doing this eliminates a good
portion of deleterious attitude. So, for ex-
ample, when a sexuality clue to the contrary
happens to be dropped during casual convers-
ation, especially among three or more people
at once, there is a great risk of torture and/
or death. To reiterate, it’s of grave import to
remain straight, even if you happen, on occasion,
to feel otherwise. Keep in mind that anyone
you pass in the shelter hallway or at the cafeteria,
anyone casually walking by your bunk bed of a morn-
ing or evening, will (most often silently) be taking tabs.
The mental notes are easy enough that one can be
entirely comfortable with them within very short
measure (“Normal, normal, he’s okay, normal, he’s
straight, this guy must not be because I’ve yet to
reach a clear conclusion, normal, normal, gay,” etc.).
Other words can be substituted for the word “gay,”
but whichever your choice, it is imperative that one’s
jaw is squarely clenched, teeth nearly grinding into a
powder on the tongue and lower lip, whether tabulating
aloud or silently. Just bear in mind that tabulation is
always of the utmost import. After completely missing
my hero break his arm over the bigot’s head, defending
the existence of myself and of my particular sexuality,
I didn’t feel very normal; not very straight at all. And
me, an utter pacifist. “That’s some chivalry,” I say,
directly to my hero’s broken arm. “Well, it’s only
two thousand dingledy-dings for fuck’s sake,” the
arm’s face replies – a face which, as if only just
noticing it, is so much more beautiful than I’d 

ever previously imagined it to be.

mmdccxxv

Lousy

Lousy little
stunted
creative growth.
Unfinished
socks. A box of
electromagnetic
incorporation (Inc.).
Inject uptight
swan song
reading. Don’t
mention poetry
anymore.

mmdccxxiv

Get it through mind,
into head cavity by way of
whatever means, that this is
not a play by Edward Albee.
You are living socially, awkward
and loud. “Oh, lord, be you bene-
volent, malevolent or irrelevant,
I want no drama, nothing more to
diminish respect. No more begging.”

Then it’s to bed. I’m on the top
bunk, so nothing unusual because I
am a top, with eyes on the ceiling,
through which the moon is pregnant
and orange; gorgeous. I know
because I ran into a tree earlier
attempting to ponder the pregnant
moon while simultaneously walking.
Was it because I am a man? Or just plain
clumsy? Don’t answer at 9:30pm, after
I snap at the moon because I bumped into
a tree. The tree, unpredictably, painfully,
was in the throes of a winter snap. Is this my
home? Or is it somebody else’s habitat?
It is the future of habitats, and

Bruce Willis finds himself in the
grips of a robotic and foreign
actress who dares to steal every
scene from Bruce. She chews
through the movie with a big wig
that is reminiscent of a particular
decade. And of robotic women, with
whom it is apparently impossible
not to fall madly in love. I know
that I did. Fall, that is.
I am terribly clumsy.
And while I rarely look back, unless

in order to view and critique the
now; to readjust, to remap. I have
always loved the period wig atop
her robotic and unsurprisingly
magical head. And Bruce, moonlit
Bruce, is no exception. Like many
who have come before him, he is
motivated to save the world simply
because of this love. Saving the
world for love sounds aspirational.
But it also seems like a terribly
cloudy, illogical thing to do.

mmdccxxiii

     …the heartbeat
     is strange
     disaster, it is an owl, lost
     in a naked uninhabited
     forest.

                                    —from “Wolfman”
                                       by John Thompson

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     To pretend
     things do not
     become rabbit
     is a misreading
     of the work of 

     a saint.

                                   —Eva Marie Bunnyrabbit

mmdccxxii

       what if buses were
               art gorillas?
                   —a misreading of an SFMUNI
                      bus advert that pondered
                      what if buses were art galleries?

This used to be a fun-
house. At least it was
until I canceled those
two phone numbers.

They were partial any-
way: 501, 617, 419, ex-
tension ZERO for the
receptionist !!! !!!

Utilizing this process of
elimination, we speed to-
ward bifurcated hugs &
nonexistent tongues (xo/

xo!): if either of you feel
like lending a finger or two
(in any way whatsoever),
and are able to do so,

now is the time to do it....
3 top hats atop 3 top heads
around 3/4 of the perimeter
of a rectangle (our be-

loved trailer) are my drum-
set and their impermanent
location. The anxiety of an
extended drum-roll; the tur-

moil of same disappearing into
subtext. Or the sandwich left
as a tip, so very rare for
such a percussive snare!

After three years of whatever
was (which, to me, at least,
was) utter turmoil, I recant
for earth, I recover, I wake up.

mmdccxxi

Intergalactic

politics
becomes
a whole
nother
planet

when
u r
bun
king
(say)

w/ 200
guys
who
current
ly have

no other
place
they
call
home

mmdccxx

Nighthood

You shouldn’t
have eaten
Grandfather’s
elephant.

  HONEST!

Should you
have really
eaten Grand-
father’s elephant?

  BRAVERY!

Of course you
shouldn’t’ve,
you wretched
single lot!