mmdcccxxvii

It’s hard to say
with words

what someone
else says so

eloquently,
so easily:

my hero.

RIP William Corbett

mmdcccxxvi

They put 
me on top 
of the hot
dog cart,
which I
suppose
is a sign
of con-
fidence.

mmdcccxxv (2)

I am older
than you are.
But I’m not
dead yet. It
took nearly 3
years of burn-
ing to face
this. To “say”
it. Who cares,
right? So, when
you sing your
song about old
men, no matter
the look on your
face, I’ll think
‘glorious!’ I’ll
think that it
must be true—
my every dream!
Well, not all of
them. As for
my additional
dreams, tonight
the moon weeps
for each of them.
They will each
take time. And
a little bit of
death, shall we
say? Yes, death.
But what’s a
little death for
but to enthrall,
invigorate, in-
vite introspec-
tion. The pun’s
on me, and why
not? I’m not a-
fraid of myself.
Nor what I’ll
find. Some may
say that’s a bit
naïve. But not
me. I have plenty
left of my sleeves,
clumsy as I may
be at finding I’ve
lost nearly half
of what I was
carrying up in
there some days.
Goodnight, you
gloriously sad
weeping ball
of cheese. I’ll
see you tomorrow
night. And that's
something you
can count on
for certain.

mmdcccxxv

Entry Number
DM7cZ1406

“Suicide bomb, that!”
Says the guy playing
the elevator music
on his cellphone (for
everyone in the ele-
vator to enjoy). “This
can’t be helped,” he
says into the phone
for whatever reason.
(Everyone else thought
surely he was going
to terminate that
hogwash with “can’t
be happening, but it
seems these thoughts
were similarly spare
of any real foreboding.)
Not being a movie,
this sort of string of
incidents does not
lead to tragedy.
These things just
do not occur in real
life. Nevertheless,
the pregnant woman
began to moan. The
elevator inhabitants
were on their way
up. The moans were
barely a blip in anyone’s
mind. And they were
silent enough that it
did not seem disturbing
that no on was paying
attention. Visibly, any-
way. But each person
in the shaft did believe
they caught an audible
“birth” and “fuck” . . . .
Ah, mumbling. This is
most definitely not
what the occupants
of elevator number
five were thinking,
but how could they
not know, given the
cast they encountered
in the miniature fleet-
ing home in which,
come to think of it,
we all spend an awful
lot of time as its
occupants are zipped
away to another home
(whether zipping down
or up, as it turns out);
to one that’s a bit less
miniature and a bit
less fleeting.
Ah, home.

Back to our story.
With, I’ll admit, an
intended level of
suspense, since I
do know what hap-
pens next, even
fifty-one years
hence (as I type
this). How could
I possibly forget?
Who could? I
exited the elev-
ator and sort of
staggered to my
desk at my less
fleeting home,
after noticing
that everyone
else in the el-
evator had the
most unusual
sunburn. “These
people are so
not careful,” I
remember think-
ing as I stumbled
toward the coffee
machine. Pay no
heed to that. It’s
simply my job to
think. Because
I’m the agent,
after all. So,
at that lost in
thought moment
of swagger and
impending coffee,
whether it was a
bomb or not, I
instinctively re-
moved my phone
from its holster
(these things have
been trending for
weeks now; trust me,
just look it up!) and
I sent one quick text:
“you still mean the
world to me, nick!”
I hit send and quite
fortunately made it
well toward the
outskirts of floor
forty-two before
the massive explosion
on floor fifty-one.

mmdcccxxiv

like the rebirth of a hard fried egg

the lovers who look like
twins are exhausted. it’s
been seventeen years.

we keep talking about the
apocalypse. “the what?” i
always wind up asking.

my mom’s mustang turned
out to be neither death nor
the long goodbye. nowadays

the big difference is the swarm
of new late night talk show hosts
who allow her the ‘sleep’ she never

seems to need. it’s four in the
morning in the pacific and i de-
cide to rise. like frankenstein or

dracula, in a way, i suppose. stiff
and vaguely monstrous. who’s
to say they were ever bad. or any-

thing but the rest of us, a conglo-
merate of fright. they loved. we
love. centuries seem to divine

different definitions, different
compulsions, in the meanings
of this illogical force. each of us,

a monster, cannot make sense
of the dynamo that takes us over.
it happened. it happens. “some

parts of us are lived in return”
(to quote jack spicer, who says
the rest of us will remain two

persons). what of the parts of
me that others despise? the
trail i leave behind as a reminder

to any and all that i alone loved
wholly? loved divinely? you may
find humor in this at breakfast,

but by suppertime i know the
hateful grip of this notion has
caught on. ‘is it my legs,’ you

might wonder. “it’s my ears,
i just can’t stand it!” “it is my
pale cheeks in autumn.” and,

as ever, the morbid silence.
if we had a hearth. if only
we each had a hearth. we

could spend our days away
from thoughts of you and me.
and on the bald mountain

that breaks our twisted spines
each long winter. and then i
laugh. your grim lips at your tea.

mmdcccxxiii

Interpersonal Relations
(part two)

     ....throbs to the earlobes.
                        —John Ashbery

It’s “pretty cool” to get exposed to
fine arts at an early age, like Kid Rock’s
doppelgänger, we each decide, here in
The Quiet Room of the homeless shelter
in which I’ve “resided” for the better por
tion of two years. And then Mr. Lucid for
the First Time in the Six Months I’ve Known
Him, he’s my bunk neighbor, adds “and so
are interpersonal relations.” Nobody
had a clue what to say for a long while
after that. We made it true by just being
silent. But, inside, I’m giddy. Because this
lies at the very foundation of my value system;
which been blown to smithereens the past couple
of years, but yet clearly remains somewhere in here.
Scrooge just claimed in a very poignant moment that
interpersonal relations are, well, pretty cool. I’ve really
no idea where the other minds here earlier have wandered,
but I can hardly contain myself. Which, as anyone who
has spent more than, say, fifteen minutes with me
knows, is not that unusual. Biting my tongue
being near impossible for me. So it’s tough to
speak, and this happens to me next to never.
A couple of minutes pass (or perhaps thirty?).
Then Scrooge, aka Mr. Lucid for the First Time
Since I’ve Made His Acquaintance adds, as if he
had only just seconds ago made the previous
observation, “Yeah, and you most definitely talk
too much.” He’s looking at me (duh!). So the
moment is gone. The subject veers momentarily
to other subjects, like earthquakes. Apparently
one hit Napa Valley the previous Sunday. A 3.8.
I learn a lot from the guys in The Quiet Room.
And relearn just about as much. Things with
which I’ve been out of practice, like regaining
control of a sustained type of optimism. This,
and, another example, the art, the sheer necessity,
of being social (I’m speaking for myself here, of
course). I tend to usually add here that I’ve been
diagnosed with anxiety, am on regular medication
for it. Particularly social anxiety. But yet I’m also a
clear-cut extrovert, in the Myers’ Briggs sense.
So, I get my energy AND my anxiety from
people. They’re a necessity and a curse (to
which I usually add that I’m a Gemini).
But, this can’t be that abnormal. Is
it? I don’t know. It’s just me.
And every day is learning to deal
with it. I stop my meandering thoughts
long enough to listen to the directions the
conversations have gone in the room.
How San Francisco sucks. How it’s
a fantastic place to be (whichever,
it’s home to me, and I do love it,
or wouldn’t be sitting in a home-
less shelter discussing such an
absurd subject). Next up: our
favorite spots to sleep when we
are literally “on the streets.” Mine
happens to be Ina Coolbrith Park
(named after a poet!), a relatively
untravelled diagonal block on Russian
Hill built on one of those avenues that
give way to a vehicular dead-end for
a block or two due to how steep it is
(or how wealthy the neighborhood, I
suppose). My mostly six months on the
streets coincided with the longest contracted
job I’d had for nearly a decade, when (during
the earlier time) I made enough money to take
three and a half years off of paid work and live
the life of what I considered at the time either a
luxury I never thought I would have, or that of
a bohemian artist. I loved the park because
it was relatively un-trafficked, I had my own
cul-de-sac built of boulders to sleep within
(a fortress, if you will), and, night or day
it had one of the most beautiful vistas
these eyes have encountered.
I got to wake up every
morning, pre-dawn,
to the view of the gorgeous
new Bay Bridge, Treasure
Island, and my “home,” of
sorts, the Financial District,
with its familiar buildings
down below. As I spent
my last night here at the
barracks (as I called them),
a place appropriately enough
called Sanctuary, which
stands inconspicuously
at the corner of Eight
and Howard Streets in
SoMa, feeling the need to
record yet another small
record of my existence,
this more straightforward
(truthful?) than normal
hello to the world, or the
minute part of it that might
take a listen, I am content.
Tomorrow, I shall move on
to better things. Finally.
May it be an uphill swing for
many years to come. If I had
small glasses and champagne
to distribute on my last
night in The Quiet Room,
I’d send us all a simple
cheer. On to the next.
May it never be as
consistently grueling
as the recent past.

mmdcccxxii

Interpersonal Relations
(part one)

     ....throbs to the earlobes.
                        —John Ashbery

It’s 2am, Tuesday morning. We’re
six guys around a table in ‘The Quiet
Room,’ which is never really quiet, but
tonight it’s quieter than usual. New
faces, old faces. The crazies, the
dependables (such pigeonholing in
the crypt of pigeonholing is always
relative; more relative than you’d
know for a long while, were you
even stuck there as I was, assuredly).
One guy I’ve never once seen lucid
(he sleeps on the top bunk next to
mine; I call him Scrooge, but a
better description of his night-
time ventures might more app-
ropriately garner him the nick-
name Gargoyle. Yes, these are
some of the things that have
occupied my mind during my
stay here of nearly two years
but for the 6 months break
when I was working (and,
lucky me, living on the
streets simultaneously) –
anyway, this is my first time
experiencing him quite lucid,
and we’ve been bunk neighbors
for half a year. He’s the life of
the party tonight! And party it is.
It’s my last night here. I scan the
“barracks” (as I call it here) in an
attempt to envision this small tucked
away enclave of a room a profligate
(in the best possible way) cul-de-sac
of lasciviousness. Our “Sanctuary”
was home (apparently) to a bath-
house. In the Golden Age of those
mostly remnants of nostalgia here
in San Francisco. The men sitting
here tonight defy sex. That’s pro-
bably an unfair assessment based
on my own perspective. But they
do defy sexuality, for certain.
Except one, who’s a dead-on
doppelganger for Kid Rock.
And yet, he “got exposed” to
“fine arts” at an early age,
which, as he keeps saying
(and I certainly keep agreeing),
was “Pretty cool” . . . .

(to be continued)

mmdcccxxi

 The days go by and I go without them. 

                                     —John Ashbery 

  

Finding crazy means 

you’re lost.  And we 

all care not to be  

too lost, with cert 

itude!    There are 

circumstances, but.... 

“The curtain and a  

curtsy!” the barmaid  

would always snort  

after pouring the five  

kamikazes.  (She’d use  

‘cinco’ for inadvertent but  

appropriate 1990’s faux  

multiculturalist unknowism.) 

Those might have been 

the days, ponders the one 

who thinks he’s actually 

in the know.  Prox 

imity to the hole  

is always important.

mmdcccxx

Short List Poem w/Actual 
   Names of WiFi Networks

O_BIRD_BOYS
The ALDER
PeeWee
ticklemypickle
Lmarcum
authentic
Manman
molasses
M flower
Dave
Standard Cognition
ThePug
memebox

mmdcccxix

Peripheral Vision

I was going to puke
once I realized we were
not even halfway through
the month.  So.  I’m truly
sorry about the spectacle.
But the fireplace is original.
Sometimes memory is funny
that way, serving no purpose
but to remind us what idiots we
are. Hence signifying the value of
reclusivity and of running away from
hardcore emotions or refusing to do
laundry on do-or-die date.  Obviously,
there is an overarching fear that we 
might break our already fragile selves;
become our own communal guiding light?
Nice lighting in any environment is gener-
Ally helpful.  And 'nice' is not exactly det-
ermined by the eye of the beholder here 
(if you follow my supposition) (distantly).
A keen awareness of one’s environment
can be helpful, if not crucial.  I have
heard about the wide disparity in how
the periphery of each individual human’s
vision can be.  Deceptively tall embank-
ments on both sides of an intersection
toward which you are driving (one ex-
ample) before which thick vegetation
obscures an intersection warning and,
a few meters forward (i.e., directly in 
front of the intersection), another shrub-
covered stop sign.  These are not life-
shortening or life-altering entities in 
and of themselves.  Two or three nar-
ratives of any shape or size suggesting
logic via the narration of each.  We
play along.  People are somehow fine
with this routine.  But, as for me, I 
believe to do so is the way of a cretin.
For one thing, people get terribly con-
fused regarding their own part in their
own event; and especially confused, say,
when one of their friends are also at 
said event, there is massive confusion,\
in general, over who did what?  Who
hosted?  Who was the most fun?  The
funniest?  Etc.