mmdcclxxi

Maudlin

That part you have

right.  That part of

me wading in all of

the bullshit, you de-

scribe it differently,

and it’s your bod-

given right, abso-

lutely, because

your attention is

sick, and not in a

good way, sick as

the victims you

point at all day

long, thinking

nothing, per-

taining to the

victims, but

even moreso

how you feel

about this sys-

tem we spent

time building,

applauding,

lauding, up-

setting, and

rearranging,

along with

our values,

how wonder-

fully precious

to have one or

two of them,

but eviscerated?

I don’t recom-

mend it, nope.

I believe that’s

what’s so shock-

ing about these

stocking-stuffers

so heavily weight-

ed with self-esteem

isssues, depressions,

the inactive ideas of

each yesterday’s gung-

ho, being solidly put in-

to a place where nobody

can remember (the idea,

yesterday, the solidity,

the action of inaction),

the pitch-perfect abuse

(sitting in front of Life-

time television yell-

why stay with such

a son-of-a-bitch!?I,

the killing of the hap-

py (where did those 

drugs go, right?)

as a sneaky mur-

derer of worse

crept in to our

universe of val-

use and such,

wow, what a

valuable uni-

verse (because,

yes, of course,

it’s since been

completely re-

veresed!), ig-

noring con-

sequences, as

if what are those?

Let’s pause for

just a moment

to prepare for

what otherwise

would be a lethal

isolation.  Which

means ignore my

pleas, ignore my

please, snub ev-

ery last one of

my pleases,

take a step

closer, just

one step, and

recall how much

further it was than

the step before

from the bleak fix

that is me, how dar-

ling of me to nostalgic-

ally imagine it so, ano-

ther step closer/further

and we might even re-

discover that release

sensation, the valve

and value of which

we lost, broke, or

just forgot to keep

their forwarding

addresses...

(to be continued,

always at some

futuristic hour,

so long as we are

still skipping and

beating, breathing

and slipping.  So by

all means stay tuned)

mmdcclxx

2. out of sorts (5 letters)

It's like
a cross-
word
puz-
zle.

It's
not
going
to work
without
the words.

mmdcclxix

How No One Is Who You Say You Are

Who you
say you 
are is
mostly
every-
one.
While
some
do, most
people
never
add that
part to
them-
selves.
Admit-
ting the
fault that
is yours
isn't half
the battle,
but owning
up to what
one's sub-
tracted from
oneself. Hon-
ing that down
inside even
your great-
est others
is nothing
about vul-
nerability.
It is quite 
simply
about
the
truth,
which,
when all
is said and
done, turns
out to be
nothing
but a
hole. 

mmdcclxviii

This Is Not At All How I Feel About It

Many apologies. In all the years of our correspondence, I

do not recall broaching this subject, which has been many. 

And this particular topic is uncannily important, especially

with regard to our ‘relationship’. So it is with all due respect

that I respond with a question.  This is what we do.  The

answer is not when will I become my old self but how.

Sometimes never is a blesséd thing.  It’s a lousy example,

but when I took the Hippocratic Oath, I never thought

I had become such a hypocrite.  Maybe the Greeks were

all Geminis, I dunno (I certainly don’t remember copulating

the Halloween previous).  “I wasn't on hand for that part-

icular heartbreak,” he says nostalgically, not even using

them (his hands) to make the point.  Amused by this, Arthur

begins to sing La Isla Bonita while the rest of the knights

are serving all of their soldiers for dinner (shining armor,

indeed!). All of the henchman agree upon specifically

what to do about history. The agreement, stacked as it

were, rock upon rock (as I recall, it was mostly slate,

done in the classic style so predominant in those less

volatile but much more tawdry times), was hinged

into about seven triptychs. “What do you mean,

what is there to do about all of this history,” she

asked the by then vanished capitan while astral pro-

jecting herself into a different parlor which housed

all of the same strange people at the other parlor,

except this newer family looked a lot more exhausted. 

I agreed as I twitched back and forth amongst extreme

clarity, juxtaposition (again, in the nature of that

particular era), a perverted cynicism and a very

oddly-whetted comedy at which only I occasion-

ally would squeeze out a dry chuckle or two.

mmdcclxvii

The White Cliffs of Dover

           Old age is not to be believed.

                                          —Joe Brainard

I woke up

this morning

with no hang-

over (I mean 
like the ones

that occur

without the

aid of a yes-

terday of

drinking or
participating

in alternative

festivities).

Meaning:

I’m young

again. Check

Roger slither-

ing out of the

bedroom and

into the L-

shaped hall-

way.  Check.

Roger.  I’m

slithering as

well, out from

under my blank-

ets to grab my

favorite pull-

over, head to

the shower

for a quick

scald and

a comb-

over.

Mostly

happy,

like al-

most al-

ways; re-
lieved with-
in the con-
viction that

I’m in no

need of a

do-over.

“Check,”

shouts

Roger

with both

arms up

in the air.

mmdcclxvi

New Poem

Stay true to your
self.  I try to be kind.

mmdcclxv

Comic Strip Yappy

Diane, I don’t remember all these cartoons.

We have novel-sized reams of mail sent to

each other from the nineties (in particular).

Was your intention to send me both Mary

Worth AND Apartment 3-G?  The latter,

whatever the case, seems hilarious,

looks like it would be a total scream 
to me (now - I certainly did not get
them at the time).  Also, The Far Side

never grows old, apparently.  I love the

one you sent of a young Captain Hook

who’s seeing a “job therapist” (I could

definitely use one of those, by the way)

because he’s torn between two potential

careers: pirating or massage therapy.  The

look on the therapist’s face is priceless.

Or did I make that part up?  Anyway,

one thing I didn’t make up were two

“Special Report” sidebars you must have

cut from something (From what, though?   
Was there a magazine called “Special Report” 
to which someone in your family – or, just as 
likely, you – subscribed?) that were titled
“Special Report 2” and “Special Report 3.” 
They remind me of the pamphlets that folks 
in and around Chinatown are always passing

out about the ... Falun Gong ... I think?

I’ve no recollection beyond that, at

the moment because I’m reminded

of the man (I actually really miss him) 
who stood on a dais made of a couple 
of milk crates, I believe, on the corner 
of Grant and Washington Streets (or 
Grant and one of the cross-streets 
nearby Washington Street) literally 
all day long sing-saying “Happy Happy

Happy” over and over and over again.  
Only it sounded more like “Appy Yappy

Yappy” to me.  So I’d be sing-saying

the same, all the rest of the day, 
when I had the joy of running into him.  
It gave me a very warm feeling, and I 
felt reassured and okay, as in I’m gonna

be okay because Appy Yappy Yappy.  
There really are a lot of these letters, 
Diane.  All in one envelope, for example, 
there’s an 8 1/2" x 11" handwritten letter, 
along with a Gil Thorpe strip, an always 
seemingly worthless comic (to me) that 
I only now, as I read through your letters 
and their various surprise enclosures,

seem to be getting.  Like, I GET 
Gil Thorpe! How crazy is that?  
And then there’s Mary Worth, 
another soap opera strip with

only two or three frames a day,

like the soapy and oh-so-slow
moving Dick Tracy, a strip I 
actually read and read, but
never actually got, to be per-

fectly honest.  Who knows why,

though, because even back then 
I loved  soap operas (I’d watch 
Days of Our Lives and The Young 
& the Restless – which starred
David Hasselhoff, at the time – with 
my mom from before I went to school.
I remember this!)  I always felt in these 
drawn-out dramas that there was

some sort of humor that I must surely
have been totally missing.  And

there must have been.  Because 
you sent me strip after strip after

strip, along with your three- to seven-
paged incredibly engaging letters,
most all of which I took photographs of 
before everything in my storage unit
went to auction.  These are the things

that life is made of. Of which life is 
made.  Which make life.  For which
I am beyond grateful.  

mmdcclxiv

Latin Pig

Greetings, beneficiary!

There’s the “ick” of St.

Petersburg.  And then

there’s the “ugh” of St.

Petersburg.  Lucy lives

in St. Petersburg, but

she is not to be con-

fused with the one in

the sky with diamonds. 

No, but she has immeas-

urable amounts of gold.

During the warm season,

and sometimes during

the not-so-warm season,

the gold cascades down

the mountaintops that

surround Lucy’s daringly

hip (for Russia, you know)

mansion.  So, yes, lots of

gold.  Urp!  And lots of

icky sky.  Ugh!  But the

golden icing on the peaks

of the summits surround-

ing her dainty mansion,

and the gold itself, seem

to be the only pollution

in Russia’s Amsterdam

(however, I will always

prefer Venice).  The pol-

lution wraps the city into

a singularity, so it can be

stuck into a sentence all

the more appropriately,

all the more violently,

with the common sway

of the boughs, the overly-

ornate parlor parquetry,

the kitchen cabinets that

are so often open, hanging

limply like the lower part

of the human body around

a broken bone, a leg bone,

as it sways ever so slightly,

to and fro (for purposes of

this missile, we can deny

the pain of it all; there’s

enough in the beautifully

wrapped city of St. Peters-

burg, whose inhabitants

seem endlessly enraptured

by the sunken rooms in

their own homes; rooms

we’d probably call dens.

In fact, “Down with the

dens!” is the somewhat

unofficial motto of the city

of St. Petersburg.  A den

with an extra e  is of course

Eden, after all.  And always

he sways and she sways,

in unison, in solidarity, it

seems with the bows.  He

sways, she sways.  And do

I ever love it when you sway

on your uniquely bland (for

St. Petersburg, anyway)

porch-swing (also unique.

in that same way) in the

indelibly heartwarming

city of St. Petersburg.