Thursday, July 26, 2018


Ground Round

I, myself, have
yet to serve in

any military
capacity. I
have, how-
ever, always
been fond of


Wednesday, July 25, 2018


Jim & I

My New Year's Resolution,
granted, a couple of weeks
early, is to stop being bitter.
About anything.  Yes, how 
improbable, how impossible
this sounds, you think.  You
know me perhaps (improb-
able), and there is a lot to be
bitter about; a whole lot of
junk floating around about 
which to be bitter, be you
me, or be you, well, you. Of
that, am I right or am I wrong?
Normally, I am able to look at
most anything happy and heart-
ily strive. After all, there are infin-
ite angles from which to look.  
Is it necessary to cultivate the
bad stuff, then allow it to inte-
grate and to potentially over-
take? Even momentarily? I know
I do.  So that makes it all my fault.
Which is...okay? Am I right or am I
right?  But if I have nobody to blame
but myself, who then do I finally have?
I realize now, as I walk endlessly through
this city of mirrors that I am doomed.  But
when you live in a city full of mirrors, you  
might pass, as I am right at this very instant,
by a somewhat familiar face that has a smile
directed right at you, a face that, as its smile
shrinks or sort of sinks into itself, belongs to 
a figure that is the template, the embodiment,
it seems to me, of sheer joy. There isn't a
speck or a flicker of sarcasm.  I know this
because I check very thoroughly when I en-
counter familiarity. Also,  I have a very on-
going relationship with loss.  Loss I know.
So this guy appears. And what do I do?
I say "Hey there, Mister.  I have a fairly
good feeling that we've met before." And
I say this in earnest, as I extend my idiot-
ic arm nearly smack into the mirror's edge.

Saturday, July 21, 2018


The Ground of No Ground

Four children bumped
in the air. They call this
a high five.  Children
are elusive.  There are
lines of impermanence,
lines of closure, lines
drawn in the sand and
lines of cocaine, where
sales have hit Ground
Zero. Brands are beautiful:
brass brands, swing brands,
junkyard brands and even
little yellow polka brands.

Friday, July 20, 2018


Bloody Birth

License to
drive. A con-
files his
into the
pocket be-
neath the
brand name
of his neck-
tie bod-
ice piss-
are no
There is no
"ammunition" --
no inevitable
Big Bang.  But
if I told you what
they really make
the monkeys do. . . . .

Wednesday, July 18, 2018



Sounds skill
Lariat's donut.

Hews sinking
(about sinew)!

Smoothie witch-
es Lucy biased of-

ten his awled brook.
Itches effen cauled

braid. Ah, plant it
like as if a reality

Cuticle, Darlene
(Knot!). This bee

smoothie knock
tern turned into

dust. Knock's
worst toward

Innie Moor.
DRove into dun

Dinah's door
(Cant tink a

Rotten pink-
ing cent, that

Dinah!). Ding
buckle it! Dirk

bugle lit! Pork
Horror Porklins

calomines: Ding
dang bung kit!

Den, kaput.

Monday, July 16, 2018


Hopeless Poet / Homeless Romantic

If it’s from the heart
it must not be homeless.

Homes have no heart
except when they are

in production. Literature
doesn’t provide the bright-

est. The eyes that glow with
the most hope are probably

not the eyes of poets. Nobody
smells / sports / spoils roses

like homeless poets is a very
ethnocentric statement (in any

form). But nobody is lousy (not
one person is lousy) and anyone

who can speak is allowed to
speak, etc. We are everywhere.

My home is you. But there are
no lines (i.e., no boundaries).

Only surface. One surface
upon which there is no run-

way onto which any flying
object can cleanly land;

no runway to properly
showcase any of our guilt.

Monday, July 02, 2018


Hearts & Backpacks

This lacks poetry,
but I’m sitting on
the same bed (or
same spot) in the
same emergency
room where Otto
(how long has it
been since I wrote
that name?) had
his heart failure
diagnosed.  You’d
think if your heart
failed it would be
easy to diagnose,
but as it turn out....
Anyway, my heart
is no longer failing
as it’s already gone.
Sorry, couldn’t re-
sist.  And maybe
that’s just wistful
thinking, anyway.
There have been
a lot of wists to
dwell upon or
inside of lately.
Like earlier today
(wist) when yet an-
other half of all of
the belongings I
possess from my
fifty-one years
were stolen
right from my
clinging arms
while I was a-
sleep in a park.
This kind of thing
seems to happen
so often that I’ve
begun to think of it
as clichè (which I
keep thinking is
“so clichè!”)....
Anyway, so I
(presented to
you as nothing
but myself, who
is “so cliché”)
was asleep in
the park this
morning... ... ...