Friday, March 30, 2018


What’s true of labyrinths is true of course
Of love and memory.  When you start remembering.
                                                                –Jack Spicer
You have created with-
in me a hole.  Well, an
open eye (with no leaks),
and it is a very cold hole.

I did not know what to 
say to you who had such 
bountiful half-barrel 
of the sweetest apples

as you placed them on
the dock of your choice
for the world’s apple
junkies to gather

around and to adore.
Not until it was almost
a minute too late did
you take the most

beautiful one in your
precious hand with
its elegant spindly
fingers and offer

one boldly to the
threshold of my
younger lips.
“Here,” you said,

as I took a bite.
“There,” you said
as I swallowed it.
Where I am now

is anyone’s guess.
Even my open eye,
which is con-
stantly leaking 

(liquid which
is obviously
from some-
where in my

head), hasn’t
the where-
withal to en-
vision a map

to provide
me with gui-
dance, nor
offers a single

token of advice 
regarding which
direction my next
step should go.

Thursday, March 29, 2018


Alice, I wish you a factory.

I wish you a
factory for all
of the same
reasons I
wish the ex
who stole all
of the rest of
my clothes (ex-
cept what I am
presently wearing)
peace.  The news-
paper clippings my
grandmother col-
lected and carefully
arranged into a sort
of funerary scrap-
book had no sticker
price, of course. 
Upon the clippings
were photos of men
who were killed
during the second
world war.  The
whole set was
enclosed nearly
airtight in a large
ziplock bag.  By
now, perhaps,
the fragile yel-
low clippings
which hung
onto the fragile
black pages of
the antique note-
book have been
blown into hun-
dreds of pieces
and flutter like
autumn leaves
over the crooked
streets of my city –
a city that knows
neither autumn
nor winter.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018


Two Good Years

As for my perplexed reaction,
I need a good playing field.

You giving me good playing
has a certain come-uppance,

the silence of which was the
silence of the Nevermind,

the area we both penetrate.
Never mind the era in which

we both penetrated the
Netherlands.  Purportedly.

Hold off!  Be silent!  Catch
your breath, Bill!  The

suspension (which was
the truth that was killing

us) had never spoken so
softly, swaying, as it were,

in the hillbilly breeze,
which was full of the

distinctly indecipherable
whispers of that voice.

Said perp (the sotto voce
perp), who hasn’t been

seen (nor heard from)
since either before

or after.  During which,
the march.  The long march.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018


     What a beautiful and violent day today is!
                                                   —Joe Brainard

The city slowly
exhales.  It ex-
hales forever.
I know this be-
cause I hear it
out my new win-
dow all night. No-
thing going in. In
is not a direction
tonight.  I’m a
slave to the
clouds that
carry away
this incessant
breath.  Gulp-
ing everything
I can from this
vacuum, I scream
Come back to the
ground, you mon-
grel clouds!!  Come
back.  Be fog.  Be
like I am.  Square
in the face.  Hazy.
Pinwheel of in-
At a loss.  Death,
that last gasp for
breath, is but
the clean sweep
of this infernal

Wednesday, March 07, 2018



     is a good year
     if for no other reason
     than just because
     I’m tired of complaining.
                  —Joe Brainard’s poem “1970”
                     in its entirety

is a good year
if for no other reason
than just because
I’m tired of complaining.

Monday, March 05, 2018


The Happiness

                I lack the courage to talk words very much
                because they are terribly finite and
                final and I don’t enjoy the risk.
                                                                  —Joe Brainard

Memory of a late May
tarot card reading
on a pile of rubble.
Don’t multi-task be-
cause it’s literally
impossible to multi-
task.  Give each step
your complete atten-
tion (totality).  The in-
ternal attention that I
am unable to see:  Pro-
jection.  The outer influ-
ence that I already know
(all too well): Playfulness.
In retrospect, all too well
turns out to be not nearly
well enough.  So what do I
need in order to resolve this
playfulness problem?  Well,
it says here “a ticker-tape
parade.”  And “I should ride
on the tiger of success” and
“squeeze every drop of juice
out of the happiness.” The
memory, a few lines written
on frayed and yellowing note-
book paper, ends obliquely:
first, with an “AMEN!” and,
all by itself near the bottom
of the page, “The Monster.”

Friday, March 02, 2018


Chocolate Grape of the Day

What’s un-
settling isn’t
just the shout-
match in in
the “Quiet
Room” on
Eve.  It’s
it is you
and me.
“What the
future holds,”
you say, “isn’t
pretty.”  You
don’t actually
say that.  To
be honest, I
summon that
up on my own.

Thursday, March 01, 2018


Diary of a Landmine

This year’s word of
the day is calm down.
I know this because I
hear it regularly all
year long; more
than I hear any
other word.
This strikes me
as humorous,
out of the ordin-
ary, puzzling, frust-
trating, defense mech-
anism and hopeless.
In that order.
Because it is a year.
And, true, it is not a
logical year at all, but
it is humorous, puzzling,
frustrating, defense mech-
anism, throwing up (yes,
a whole lot of that), surreal-
ism (which numbs rather than
stings, because it is not reality),
dread, fits of dead end, which,
when you find yourself there,
are pretty hopeless (nowhere
to go but backwards, and all),
etc.  Every day there’s another
obstacle.  Until you find that,
pausing for a breath, you
have rested your foot
upon a landmine
(which, you have
to admit, is a pretty
solid example of
“dead end”).
At this point,
you look back
(as I did) and
question where
that path you were
on to begin with must
have led.  And where it
it all went wrong.  Where
you somehow deviated, and
wound up at the end of this road,
instead of another one.  Instead
of any other one.  Instead of
each and every end of each
and every alternate road.  So
it’s safe to say, I do believe,
that calm down land mine
is the word of this year
(thus far).