Thursday, November 29, 2018

mmdccciii

Oct. 30

If I say it,
it is true.

If I say it,
it is true.

My writing
lacks logic.

Like me, you
say, going

from tid-
bit to tid-

bit as if
everything

is in a pro-
per place –

has an app-
ropriate loc-

ale, one thing
leading, con-

sequently, to
the other. Like

narrative anyone
can follow, and

occasionally nod in
vigorous agreement,

as if to relay “This
makes sense, I con-

cur!” Like chron-
ology, like an

engaging bed-
time story told

with the primary
purpose of putting

one to sleep. Sound-
ly, with intermittent

dreams (anti-logic,
experimental poet-

ics, non sequiturs,
etc.). I arose at

seven a.m. I lunched
at eleven. I interviewed

at two. I slept around
one in the morning. 

I slept around one
loud morning.  I

am uncloudy and I
rate the logic of

my world. Breathe
in. Breathe out.

This day is very
alive. In fact,

it rocks! Today
rocks! And I rule!

Oh, happy day
of the living

I slept around one loud morning.


Sunday, November 18, 2018

mmdcccii

Art Not Play?

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again
      whom we love.

                                                —Frank O’Hara

Today,
the city
clearer,
I walk it.

Up and
down its
many hills.

The Far
East is
as far
away as
El Segundo.

Which is
either
very far
away or
very close.

It depends
on your
perspective.

Art Not Play?