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
issues, 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 yelling
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, or worse,
creeps into our
universe of val
ues 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 from

me than the step be

fore, 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 in this way. Because this is what we do. The
answer is not when will I become my old self; that’ll never
happen. But sometimes never is a blesséd thing. When I took
the Hippo Oath, I never thought was a hypocrite. Maybe the
Greeks were all Geminis, I dunno (I certainly don’t remember
any screwing that occurred Halloween). “I wasn’t on hand for 

that particular heartbreak,” he says nostalgically, without even
utilizing his pretty hands to make the point. Amused by this, 

Art begins to sing La Isla Bonita while the rest of the knights
are brashly serving all of their grunts dinner (shining armor,
indeed!). Then the henchmen 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 thread
throughout about seven triptychs. “What do you mean, 

what is there to do about all of this history?” Jenna asked 

the by then vanished (vanishéd) capitan while astral

projecting herself into a different parlor, one which housed
all the same strange people that were milling about the pre
vious parlor, except this newer group looked a lot more
exhausted. I agreed as I twitched back and forth amongst
extreme clarity, warped juxtaposition (again, in the nature 

of that particular era), a perverted cynicism pulsing through

this  very oddly-whetted comedy which, while watching, I 

could but squeeze out a rare and very dry chuckle.

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.
I have novel-sized reams of mail you sent
me during the nineties (in particular). Was
your intention to send me both Mary Worth
AND Apartment 3-G? The latter, what
ever 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 entitled
“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 a 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
again, only now, as I read through your
letters and their various surprise enclos
ures, 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 before I even started 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

Laminated 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 confused
with that person in the
sky with diamonds. No,
but she has immeasurable
amounts of gold. Scads of
it. During the warm season,
and sometimes during the
not-so-warm seasons,
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 disgustingly,
all the more gaudily,
with the common sway
of the boughs, the overly-
ornate parlor parquetry,
the kitchen cabinets that
are so often open, hanging
limply like lower parts of
the human body around
a broken bone, a leg bone,
say, as it sways ever so slight

ly, to and fro (for purposes of
this missive, we can deny
the pain of it all; there’s
enough in the beautifully
warped 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 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 boughs
and the buroughs. He
sways, she sways. And do
I ever love it when you sway
on your uniquely bland (for
St. Petersburg, anyway)
porch-swing in the
indelibly heartwarming
city of St. Petersburg, Russia.