mmdccclxvi

Teenage Rebellion: My Version

     You’ve fallen, roof...
                      —John Ashbery

Continuing to be inspired by one
of my heroes most high, the fellow
who wrote yet another epigraph
for me: ...also, perhaps, because
he can no longer explain himself—
his poems—and who needs one,
anyway? Furthermore, I would agon-
ize over the possibility he might come
across one or two of his own lines
used by this unknown whomever-
he-may-be, some wacky poet out
West (maybe he would be Googling
himself?) and from such stance find
it so utterly distasteful he would then
publicly criticize that fact and that
poet, and there, my work (or also
my work). I am being, well, only some-
what tongue-in-cheek here as who
would not welcome seeing in someone
else’s work their own words, and
not of a plagiarized nature, although I
am certain that by some people of the
pen, hopefully a rare few, seeing their
own words in an epigraph which gave the
writer credit might cause some cringes
or occasional downright anger. I can
imagine a circumstance or two, that
is. But I would by all means be flat-
tered, even if it were in the John Riv-
ers/Donald Trump any news is good
news way. And, really, would it worry
me more if he were alive? I have to
admit, I’ve done this for years, and it
never stopped me while he was still
here. Yep, this is the stuff I normally
worry about, even though I personally
epigraph him in sincere homage to
his work and to the creativity I
get from it. He made these ab-
solutely jam-packed absurdities,
and I do take them most often
out of whatever context may have
been intended, stupid of most every
single reference, perhaps, but they
are limitless. And nothing can
erase the way his words and their 

order, architecture, might and do inspire
me, as they apparently do countless others.
...
Ah, it’s sad that money remains the problem,
which is pessimism I don’t like to resort to,
but, alas, is it in my blood (and I’m much more
an optimist than a pessimist; more
on that later, but...)...?: Poetry
is here to divert, please. To take
my mind off the mundanity and yet
necessity of cash. To need $400 for
a job, for example, seems like, what?
And yet that is where I find myself at the
moment. And this is not even a fraud-
ulent job (don’t even ask, or, well, let
me just say that I lost my checking
account of 13 years or so because
of one of these,,,about two weeks ago —
I was grandfathered into the bank, and
now I’m told they are looking more in-
to a “wealth management” client base,
not a niche I fit into. This is such a long
and complicated problem. I feel that I am
obviously the victim here — on the phone it
almost sounds like empathy from the folks
whose job it is to tell me “We’re sorry, but
you’ll never have a checking account at this
institution again.” “We most certainly feel
for you in this horrible time, we really do.”)
Great timing, too. To expand the sad situa-
tion (more for myself than for him), I
attempted to speak with one my close
family members recently, reaching out
to him first. We had not spoken in around
two years, ironically during the time when
I have been without a home (okay, I can
get a bit bitter at times) (again, more
on that later). He is the one member of
my of my immediate family who could
easily help me with a weeklong loan,
the one I need for the new job. Well,
my attempt was a bad idea and
slam went the phone.

I was an odd child. And I did not go through
teenage rebellion until, well, literally until
after I graduated from high school and was
about to leave home for college. I was
young. You cannot even make a state-
ment about your belief system or your
values, or me and mine, without bringing
up those in relation to whatever rebellion
I like to think I was experiencing (as opposed
to those of your folks, I mean hence,
and perhaps we all have gone through
this, it is just that this thing seems to
most often happen, at least on television,
somewhere between the ages of three and
eleven. Am I not correct in this estimation?).
I was so happy to be leaving, and I was also
angry because of something, I don’t even
remember what it was. I think I was a
a little tipsy when I decided to leave.
I got just past Tulsa—having begun
from just over the Arkansas border. I was
on my way to, get this, California, before
I either sobered up or wondered what in the
heck I was going to do in L.A. once I got there
with the money, or lack thereof, that I had in
my pocket. Become a poet, maybe? Needless
to say I turned around, headed back home
to the drama I had created (mostly), and
a month or so later I was in college.
I did go back home for a summer to work,
but not being a fan of the South, and feeling
that there are so many places I want to see
before I die, I don’t go back much. Well,
there’s also the fact that for a lot of my life
I have lived from paycheck to paycheck, so
that is more of an excuse than a reason. In
fact, once settled in San Francisco and mak-
ing ends meet, I would buy my mom
a place ticket to visit me for a week at
a time, around every year and a half or so.
She loves it. These are not new stories.
I have told them in one way or another
before in here, but they are my thoughts
in connection to some other things
this morning. Which, essentially
is the nature of my teenage rebellion,
which I will try to spell out
for you below, in as clear
and straightforward a man-
ner as possible. It is all my
truth, meaning these small
things: I found myself so
out of favor with the ways
of my parents while growing
up (did I ever?), so that I would
take some of their characteristics
along the way, and have adjusted
my life to omit them completely,
and of this I have been mostly
successful, in my humble opinion,
have become practically devoid
of these characteristics which,
as a mere kid, I found so distaste-
ful. I suppose I am happy to have
gone about this process. It
seems natural. And to have
done me ... well? Is that
normal? I imagine it is.
But is it normal to think
about it all in this way?
I do not know. I am a bit
abnormal, I suppose. So I will
leave you with these, what
I would consider my most
prominent means of
rebelling against the
(what I felt) horrid,
unnecessary ted-
ium which I felt ep-
itomized my parents:

1.

Never let money be

an object of obsession;

decrease materialistic

impulses as much as

possible. Reason: I was

witness to a father who was

relatively poor, in upbringing

and especially thanks to raising

four kids whom he loved, yet

he was the most material-

istic person I have ever

known. The torture it

seemed to cause him,

and his desire to have

things he could not afford,

and also for us to have them,

was to be avoided, I thought.

 

2. 

Racism, bigotry, bullying are 

pathetic. My father was raised 

in a suburb of Detroit in which

he went from being in the

majority (white) when he

was quite young to being

a minority in his neighbor-

hood and school by the

time he graduated. Ap-

parently he was bullied

by some of the mostly

African-American kids. The

chip never left his should-

er. My guess is this played

a big part in his staying

in Arkansas when he met

my mother in what has to

have been one of the

least diverse counties

in exsitence. Enough

said.

3. 

Worry not about your en-

emies (imagined or real),and 

never spend much time dwelling 

on how you have been wronged

(which, in his case, was

most often by one per-

son in particular, and

his constantly verbaliz-

ing that anguish made

it all actually seem like

a scapegoat for his anger

and a showcase for how

impossible it was for him

to ever be right) (or wrong).  

This is something that

I had to pay close att-

ention to, over one part-

icular incident that af-

fected my life drama-

tically. It was tough

to overcome, and at

times I did not suc-

ceed, if but awkwardly.

One thing that helped

was not allowing my-

self to accept the re-

sponsibility for the

harm that was done

and continues to this

day. If blame is mis-

placed, even if you

have to work like hell

to get through it, ex-

amine it closely, and

redirect it to where

it truly belongs, on

yourself, for example,

and move along

forward. It is a pro-

cess, and has helped

me understand my fath-

er’s obsession over this

one person who supposedly

ruined his life, something

I think we have a lot of

control over, almost no

matter how bad we have (or

have not) been sabotaged.

 

4. 

Do your best to consistently

remain optimistic and forward-

thinking. Most always, at least.

thinking. Most always, with how 

I saw both of my parents. I saw 

my father mostly torn apart

and unhappy about, to me,

the most ridiculous things.

And my mother, to this day,

is the most glass-half-

empty person I know. It

is a way of living I knew

from early on I did not

want and, frankly, puz-

zles me to no end. I

may have my sarcastic

or even bitter side,

on occasion, but I am

an optimist to the

core about the fut-

ure and its possibili-

ties. I do like to think

that I am living proof,

despite or thanks to some

recent struggles, of how

optimism’s certain brand

of faith can be an enhanced,

evolved, way of living. Even

if, sometimes, I am admittedly

not the best at it.

5. 

Never raise a fist at any-

one. I am a pacifist. Prob-

ably the biggest reason

for this is that my father

spent hours teaching me

how to fight. By which I

mean to fistfight. And

how to do whatever I

could to survive at all

costs. Yeah, it’s a dad

thing. He felt it some-

thing of a right of pass-

age. I balked, bigtime;

and have made sure never

to get into a fist-fight. The

very notion seemed incred-

ibly foreign to me until re-

cently, while living in a

shelter for the homeless.

“Let’s take this outside”

is one of the common

things that you will hear

from men when you’re living

with a bunch of them every night.

My pacifism is not without

its blind side. As a child,

I know that my brothers and

sister and I wrestled like wild-

cats. And when I was about

three I would talk my

relatives into letting

me in the playpen with

my younger twin bro-

thers. When the rel-

ative would leave I

would then attempt to

beat my younger siblings

up. Pretty well, I am told.

I do not remember this,

but it alone is cause

enough of leaving this

painful remnant of

survival of the fittest

alone at all cost. As anec-

dote, I am proud of my country’s

military: the other three men

in my family are veterans of

war. But if I had had to make

a choice, I would most certainly

have been a conscientious

objector.

6. 

Sexual perversion. As a child I’d

see my dad flirting with waitresses

and whomever.  Incessantly. Also, 

at least once a year for several

years, individually, and

with all four of us, he’d

sit us down and tell us

that good old story about the

birds and the bees. And it

was quite the lesson!

The act of sex was a typ-

ical topic in my family.

He even included....

Wait, who am I kidding.

This is one topic with which,

admittedly, at least in the way

in which it characterizes itself with-

in me, I do not have much of a negative

issue with.  I mean, without being 

derogatory. Sex and sexuality

is a topic around which I feel

more openminded, or all-en-

compassing, in my curiosity,

than my father ever was, and I

suppose that, for that impetus, I

       owe him much gratitude.

P.S. If you realize that these
latest poems are not only
often longer, but in more
draft form (including ugly
typos and grammatical er-
rors), please know that I
am aware and have been
going back to edit them
as time permits. Editing is
something with which I have 

pretended never to spend much
time.  But times change. And

getting it right seems a lot
more necessary, to me, than

it used to.  Anyway, and I 

wanted you to know that I 

know, just, you know, in case 

you happen to notice a few squeaky
wheels; they will inevit-
ably be changed.

P.P.S. Does anyone read
these? I am just
curious. Alexa
says I have the
number 4 poe-
try blog in the
world at the mo-
ment. But I often
get the feeling that
her system of ranking
is entirely random,
a thought I often
have about all such
ranking systems.

mmdccclxv

Some Thoughts on Inability

     Say hi to jock-itch
                    —John Ashbery

The hardest thing I have ever had
to do is ask for money. I some-
how found a way to do it, on
occasions too numerous for me
to really dwell on at the moment.
I find myself in a situation in which
I may have to do it once more, much
as my life is much better than it has
been in years. I have a roof over my
head, my own little isolation tank, and
it would be a difficult thing to lose it,
even with my luck. But so it goes.
Money. And I cannot begin to
imagine what I would have done
nor what my life would be like
if I had not begun my habit of
begging online. For some rea-
son, it makes me think of my
fear of flying. I started air
travel in college, with a
trip from my home state
of Arkansas to New Orleans,
thanks to my good friend
Don, who allowed me this
one foray into the rich kids
way to do spring break, to
my mind, by letting me use
miles he had accumulated
with business trips, of which
this would be yet another
one for him. For me, it
was spring break. But it
was very scary to me in
those four airplanes (i-
magine, layovers in which
one has to catch a next
flight both to and from
cities in adjacent states).
I remember that there was
some pretty bad turbulence
on the second leg of that trip,
from Nashville to New Orleans.
But, for whatever reason, each
time I boarded an airplane after
that it became a worse exper-
ience, and more difficult to
force myself to even do, and
this when on for about four
trips until I could not do it
anymore. And I had never been
anywhere but the US and a bit
of Canada (driving, of course).
Am I perhaps suggesting that
the fear of flying is something
akin to the fear of asking
for money, and perhaps just
as ridiculous in its own way,
given the much-known sta-
tistics of how you are much
more likely to die in a car
than on an airplane, and
doing many more much
more mundane things,
apparently? Unfounded
fears. Things that cause
way too much stress for
me to accommodate. In any
case, I found the unfounded
fear of flying quite absolutely.
Fortunately, I found a way to
quell the fear after many years
of polling folks, be they acquaint-
ances, good friends or total strang-
ers, whenever I would learn that
person had the same fear. So,
as common as it was, and as
illogical, all I knew was that
I wanted to see the world.
And how would I do that
without flying? So for over
a decade I took a poll, so to
speak. How had each person
who actually overcame that fear
(which was not everyone of them,
of course) found a way to do it and
survive? Finally, after that decade
or so, I had enough research to
finally settle on one of the
most common ways these
folks I would query found to
ease if not rid their fear of fly-
ing, and I went with it. And can
attest that I turned forty in Paris.

My first trip abroad.  And

have easily traveled in
an airplane ever since.
Or for about seven
years or so, when I
could afford it.
This is very off-
the-cuff, but my plan
was for this it to be a humorous 

ditty on the importance of humor. 

I know that if I even have a 

point, I meander my way to it

if not all of the way through it.

But as for the humor, despite
consciously realizing it must
be an important part of my
work, just as it has always
been and continues to be in
life.  Not to even get into why
I came to such a pronounced
conclusion about anything, but it
has to do with the times during
which I began to write seriously,
and moving from Boston to San
Francisco about that same time,
and about why I read poetry in
the first place; all in all, it is
about me and my own fragile
baby values, which also include
things like honesty, which can mean
many things to me, a guy who realizes
it is literally non-existent on the whole.
That does not have mean the straight truth,
again, if such a thing even exists, but a-
bout my own desire for being real, some-
thing I was taught was a virtue, but found
no evidence of it (again, in whole) what-
soever. Quite the contrary. And along
with that honesty, which is what I call
an honesty of experience and curiosity/
imagination, which is not even the nirvana
of truth, but a truth that one might, like
nirvana, aspire toward. So it was inflected
with and even aided by such things as
my current mood and my imagination, not
only real events, but could be portrayed
fictionally, so long as it was in some way
perhaps too difficult to describe here,
honest to me and honest of me. This
would need to often include actual events,
or at least the things that went on in my head
because of whatever was going on around me
(or despite of it, perhaps?) and usually
included somewhat nostalgic or emotional
content, and what I may or may not have
learned about the moment, or experience, or
just as a way to relay it or what i was thinking.
Also important was gossipy stuff, a way many poets
got under my skin by interesting me in their lives,
wondering what was real and if it was, how the
rest of the story went. Hence my obsession
with O’Hara and, as it turns out in
some ways even moreso, at least as far as
the amount of reading I do, one vs. the other,
the works of John Ashbery; certainly moreso than
I would ever have known when I first started
puzzledly reading his books. But they have
become a compendium which I now think of
in the same way as a child I thought of the Bible,
or, probably moreso, The Chronicles of Nar-
nia or The Lord of the Rings. Like any other
form of art I had become attached to, the
one thing I could not handle was that what
little intelligence I may actually have feel
insulted or bruised by what I read (or saw 

in the cinema, or saw or performed on the 

stage, or heard in the music to which I
danced, etc.). When the stars aligned, as
they can more often than I would have
thought at first (even though, the truth is,
after finishing that first book by Ashbery I
certainly didn’t think I would ever be reading
anything by him again, which also pro-
pels my practice of reading that which
I do not understand or even like, trying
like hell to get something out of it; and
let me assure you that this can, for me,
lead to some wonderfully eye-popping
moments of enlightenment), the exact
opposite happens, and, say, the juicy
stuff, the esoterica, makes me want to
read biographies, essays, journals, what-
ever additional information I can get on
whomever this poet is or was who spoke
so intimately and interestly and hum-
orously and gossipy and often obvious-
ly out of love or extreme respect about
quite often the same persons on a regular
basis (yet the obscure singular references
become madly interesting, as well)—many
of whom I also desperately want to know
like I do the author. This practice is the
stuff of basic academic research, of course,
so is quite possible to do in most cases,
as it turns out. And this desire has pro-
pelled me along on this trek almost as
much as anything else I can think of. I
call it engaging with an author (dead or
alive), and it is the author I am most of-
ten hoping to get to know when I pick
up a book (of poetry, let me be specific)
in the first place. Almost without fail,
the desire is to engage.

Anyway,
there are other things, too but I was
getting to humor, wasn’t I? And, oh
yes, how important it was for me, even
from the beginning, to make absolutely
certain that my work and what I would
editorially showcase had plenty of it.
Humor. It just seemed something that
was lacking. I have come through
some times, recently, in which humor 

seemed to be extraordinarily absent, 

or unidentifiable at times. But looking 

back through this experience, and back

at my writing both before and during
the time, often when I do not
even realize it, I mix very low-brow
humor with topics or story-lines that
are of great importance, perhaps
severely so, to me. So there is a
bit of purpose to this method, of
course, and a lot of it has at its

center to simply engage, to give 

a potential reader the opportunity 

I had to delight in getting to know 

my heroes. And, after all, this is 

about me. But, also, about me 

engaging with you. So, if I can get
you with the fantastic jock-itch epigraph
at the top, and you get this far, then there
has been engagement. I may never know
you. But you can certainly know plenty
about me.  (If you read Roman Numerals
for example, just look at the number
above, each of the poems with numbers
before that can be found right here.
For those of you who may possibly want
to know more, however few might be
left at this point in this poem, for those
who have never read any of them before,
for example, there are ample means to know
me much better.)  A lot of what I do, I am sure,
is attempt to capture or mimic the things I found
in those poems by the folk I mentioned earlier 

(there are numerous others, too) that made 

me want to understand him, often to 

the point here it would literally feel

as if we were friends who would often
stay up together long into many an
evening or night talking, talking,
talking. Learning about one another.
It make me happy that I have not quite
lost my sense of humor. I feel a bit in-
complete when I offer something that
is seemingly too heavy with the lack
of it, but that seems important to me,
as well. Or something that is just plain
sappy, which, here I am, doing some-
thing like both of those example, and
without a lick of humor (or much, any-
way). And while many of you may have
gone further, and gotten to know me
personally, especially pursuant to
reading or hearing something I wrote,
that is huge to me. And I know how
full of ego that may sound, but this
method of trying to engage seems to be
one of the most genuine ways to begin.
For any of you I have jilted, by not re-

sponding in a proper fashion if you have
already attempted to reach out to me,
please try again. I do not prefer this
life of solitude. There is no one to
blame for it but myself. But however
I might act elsewise, I do this as a cat-
alyst for engagement, first and fore-
most.

I never got to meet Mr. Ashbery
(unlike so many of the poetic
heroes who have lived in
my lifetime, who have be-
come friends or acquaint-
ances or which I have at
least had the opportunity
to offer a hug or a handshake
in an effort to say they are, 

to me, hero) — I never
even heard him read. Not
that I did not have ample
opportunity. I think it might
be just because I was literally
too in awe to bring myself
to be there? But while
he can surely no longer
hear me and my feelings
about him, there is still
engagement between us,
and it is not just one-
sided, to me. And
I feel a much better
person for picking up
that second and third
and fourth book. And
reading and re-reading
many more. So thank
you very, very much,
John! Even and esp-
ecially for the jock-itch.
And thank YOU, too. May
you never leave the word,

with many apologies for

these silly once right here.

May you find in them a
bit of truth and humor, 

and perhaps even more

to cherish in wonder.

mmdccclxiv

...life is short, and life is long, how a thing may contain

the opposite direction of wherever it’s headed...
                             —Stephanie Young

I was not born yesterday.
And I am a Gemini. As-
trology being random,
it makes a lot of sense
to me. As in or does it?
And so I look at you,
quite often and proud
and love you despite
your foibles. Some of
which were horror.
I grew to love you,
Dad. I always did,
but the expansion
began after I left
you (left home,
that is, all of seven-
teen, to go to a col-
lege that I would pay
on my own; it was al-
ways the deal) and has
never stopped expanding.
You loved me (He did.
It was unmistakably
obvious). You even
knew, in so many ways
who I was, well be-
fore I did (: a squirrel;
a twinkie. For ex-
ample.), but were,
by your own ad-
mission, clue-
less as to what to
do with me because
I would always have
rather stayed in my room
all day reading than go
build fences, tend to the
cattle, watch you play
with your bulldozer
or go fishing (and I
certainly never en-
joyed the times I
had to go hunting).
You taught me how
to read before I got
to first grade (we
had no kindergarten
the year I would have
attended such). I was
therefore an anomaly
to my teachers, just
as I was to you. I can-
not imagine how my
life would have gone
without this gift. So
this is just a short note,
after a hard talk that
ended too shortly (of
which I am heartbro-
ken, a malady which

it appears might

yet be possible),
to remind you (myself)
that I miss you, I love
you and I am very much
of you. And for that,
I could not be more
grateful.

mmdccclxiii

Page 3

     a giant crab
     in the sky above Tokyo
     whispers compassion —
              —John Ashbery

There is no English
for the song in my head
that popped up when I
recovered.

The fingers made the
strings of the beautiful
guitar emit sounds that
were ethereal.

The entire world was
rapt. I asked the eaves-
droppers of the very tall
videos to come sit with me.

Their flips were quite
confusing at first. But
then each one held my
hand to a conclusion.

Here was a guy explaining
something about, maybe,
dancing; my Indian
heritage.

He said “The Condolences Book
is for nerds.” I said I loved
nerds. I failed to say that
I am one. What is nerd?

But I cannot stop wanting
just to feel something.
When I write that I don’t feel
anything. Writing not righting.

The urgency of the moment.
Instant camera. The polaroid
of the day. What’s
confusing?

Time as an instrument to detect
quality. The irritability of
instantaneous. Identity.
Feeling terrible.

I am unidentified
in the sky at night.
Feeling blue. Say-
ing “I do.”

mmdccclxii

Page 1

She was stopping to
warm with the fog
or something. “Fog
and warmth make
little sense toget-
her,” I’m sure she
was thinking. I ha-
ve been there. Sh-
e says it even, a
few moments lat-
er: “This war-
mth makes no
sense at all. A-
nd I love it.” Lat-
er, wanting to
sleep, I feel like
slapping myself
so hard about it
all. About every-
thing. Flogging
myself in my sol-
itary little apart-
ment with my su-
it still on (having
passed out from
10:00am to 1:00
pm, missing the
free food pantry
that comes ever-
y Tuesday at 11-
:00). Then I start
singing. “Oh, the-
re’s lots to do! Th-
ere’s lots to do! Lots
and lots and lots to
do!” In my frag-
ility, I am singing
as if I am with a
guy who isn’t in-
die at all. Banging
out some thunder.
Strumming to the
radio from storm
to storm. All the
other guy hears is
“wah wah wah &
wah wah wah wah,”
having no idea I’m
thinking “we we we
& we we we we.”
The warmth makes
no sense but I am
nonsense anyway.
It is a lot like war:
when the festival
comes one has to
either get to work
or simply do....

mmdccclxi

Page 2

...and I am hungry. And the
pairs will await. I’ll be there.
Or. Axel Bower is NOT a Wo-
man? But my largest dilemma,
the most confounding for some
time now, because fidelity is
not only NOT a dilemma, but
she is bouncing, or she is Bou-
nce Electra on the verge of
doubling up (the Wrigley
twins come to mind). And
then thrice such. As I was
saying before, the gig di-
lemma, which is coming up
apace, anon, toot sweet:
do I head for Africa, which
has always been next on
the list and/or lose my he-
ad, either here or there?
Back on the ground is a
place we call Spotify (at
least these days). And
the news that Weezer
remade Toto just ab-
out a year ago? Or
something? I type it
onto (into?) my list,
post haste. We do
everything in a hurry,
have lots of projects,
and never finish any-
thing. Life is happy
like that. Am I dis-
appointed about the
whole Weezer thing?
I used to have a best
friend who was tot-
ally infatuated with
Rivers Cuomo. We
aren’t friends any
more because “I
am not the same
as I used to be.”
Anyway. Such a-
re so-called friend-
s. Well, the histo-
ry goes that we
went to an OK Go
concert (before
the treadmills
made them such
a big deal) just
because Cuomo is
buds with the ba-
nd, and word had
it that he’d be in
attendance. She
was right, and OK
Go was pretty rad.
It has been one of
my rare concert
experiences, es-
pecially those of
an intimate nat-
ure (it was at
Bottom of the
Hill). Indy band
gone full-on 80’s. 

Or somesuch. 

Would have 

been the 

tagline.  I

used to nev-
er read much
beyond that,
so.... The
1980’s, my e-
ra, totally. Tot-
ally. More to
that story la-
ter, as this
one is about
piecing thin-
gs together.
Like a quilt.
I had a hand
in making a
quilt with my
3rd grade cl-
ass (Thank
you, Mrs. 

Wells!). It 

was 1976,
the bicent-
ennial, and
she thought
it’d be a fan-
tastic way to
celebrate su-
ch a year wi-
th a quilt-ma-
king project.
Moms and
grandmoms
were invited
to participa-
te, too—and
of course
they did.
In fact (
or of cou-
rse), most
of the
actual
quilti-
ng was
done by
the mat-
rons & gr-
andmatr-
ons any-
way...

mmdccclx

Reinventing History

     We can’t live on without the rhythm.
          —LSD (the musical trio that is Labrinth, Sia and Diplo)

I get up, a friend
messages me, a
friend? I have
about an hour
to do this, an
hour to do that
and then two
for the next
item on the
list. I can
see life
from
more
than
just a
singular
perspective.
I think. I can
go a week with-
out a shower. I
would assume any-
one can do that.
Bad example. I
have a refrigerator
now. It is for my
perishables. I
talked a bit with
my friend about
perishing. I
suppose you
could say that
I started it. I
had told him
I will be much
better soon
unless I die
first. And
he said
Don’t
die!
I had
to smile.
I certainly
don’t plan to,
was my resp-
onse. Then
we went on
to the next
subject.

mmdccclix

Where you headed for?
       —John Ashbery

“I been to Houston
once,” said the man
the only time he was
ever in attendance
at the Alcoholics An-
onymous meeting at
Birch and Marlowe.

mmdccclviii

“i’ll have the nostalgia pancake, extra syrup, please!”

sure, a nostalgia pancake in-
cludes some unhappy memo-
ries (which, as it turns out, are
not much more than a pinch,

even though i realize that
i usually have on my rose-
colored glasses), the men
in my life (especially; and

by men, i mean those with
whom i’ve had relations, by
which i mostly mean the men
with whom i have resided for

a good duration, with whom
i was most often living only
a week or two to a month
after falling for one in an

untested domestic bliss, in
which at least one of us did
tremendous work to main-
tain). the recipe includes

dreams (good and ‘bad’,
with the most memorable ones
recurring; serials that, as such,
became so totally real that

they become indistinguishable
from reality as time passes)
and the good fortune of a
very blessed, non-tragedic

life (without even a singular
regret), replete with a filing
by in two and threes (etc.,)
of a potential endowment

of acquaintances and crushes
from which to literally pick
(as if standing hungrily at the
entrance to the ark before the

flood, deciding in an instant as
the line progresses in front of
you whom to dismiss and with
whom to spend the next few

weeks, months or even years,
to get to know/co-exist with)
and a spoonful of kismet (even
if one counters this flavor with

a complete disbelief in fate
or karma). one of the big in-
gredients, of course, is love.
the several loves in this life

(both great and small, long
in duration or swift and pass-
ing). each of these have brought
warmth of heart, elucidation,

adventure, indelible snap-
shots in time that can be
recalled with ease, usually
one that is a paradigm of

that particular love, and
all of which bring thoughts
of good times, almost never
unhappy times, but definitely

a few moments of absurdity
or enlightenment which can
be easily recalled (this from
someone for whom recalling

is not a given, is pretty un-
usual at times, unless there
are words or photos of rem-
inder, or when the wonder-

ful moment of an odd trig-
ger comes by someone or
something that brings it all
back like it was yesterday, a

phenomenon for which i am im-
mensely grateful; like recently,
how while staring at a mop in wal-
greens reminded me of being chased

around a second floor apartment,
which was directly above a printing
press establishment on main street
in bowling green, ohio, with a broom,

escaping just in time to watch dishes
fly down from the window above by
the man previous behind the chasing
broom, [mostly] landing on the foot

of snow that was the winter
norm in that part of my life;
followed an hour or so later—
after “making up”—by a

trio of police officers at our
door asking about a domestic
disturbance that had been called
in by three or four neighbors).

also important in this nostalgic
and decadent breakfast are re-
collections of adventures of hik-
ing or camping, of many hours

of flitting around with my crazy
movements on dancefloors all
around the world, and of parties
hosted by yours truly (wherein

there might be, say, fifty or
sixty folks show up during the
course of the night in hallo-
ween attire. these memories,

this nostalgia, help me
gather perspective on
who i am based on who
i was, and most gener-

ally bring me joy, even
sealed within the isolation
tank that has been my
life for over three years

now. so much joy that
i find myself quite often
pilfering through pictures
or trying to fill in the gaps

where i cannot bring my-
self to remember an event
that i know took place, a
person with whom i know i

had a meaningful encount

er. these are usually the

durations in my life when 

there is a distinct lack

of graphic evidence av-
ailable (as few or any
were made at the time)
and the timeframes du-

ring which i failed to write
much in my journals. also
important in building these
flapjack stacks are fond 

memories of the long con-

versations that happened, 

over meals in cafes, or
wherever i was living

at the time, in groups rang-
ing from two to twenty or
so (like the one with four
or five of us at the

apartment in which i
lived the longest, where
we talked for some-,
thing like four hours

about how gold was
made into bars). i spoon
into the batter many
stories, particularly of

love, different with
each person, but each
having a beginning
(illogical, intense),

a middle (building
your ‘place’ and
exploring the idea of
domestic bliss) and

the ending, which,
even if hellish at the
time, can now find me
grinning with glee; paus-

ing for long gazes into the
nowhere space with these
brown eyes, lost in a moment,
my face that has been fortunate

enough to enjoy hours of kiss-
ing (and of course i do
not suggest overall, but
all at once, on many

occasions), the hours of
conversations, the arguing,
the tears, the coded looks
(“please can you open this

can for me?” or “why are
you even thinking of
doing this to me?”);
whatever would bring

me to the next stage
in the journey. ad-
ventures, for sure.
happiness, obviously.

hedonism in many forms.
and so much love (i have
learned to only speak for
myself on this one; but i've

so often felt it coming at me
with as much certainty as
the fact that i am actively
returning it). admittedly,

it is easy to appreciate
the value of such a blessed
life when you find yourself
in a long drought without

most any of it, when you
find yourself in unknown,
undecipherable, troubled
times, alone, in a box

you call “helplessness.” but
you do what you know, (if 

you know some good?), and
you do it with all you have in-

side of you. i will continue
with this blessed and overly
joyous existence, nourishing
myself with these pancakes,

which are drenched in maple sy-
rup (which is almost too excitable
for this tongue). and i’ll be back
there lickety-split. just watch me.

mmdccclvii

I Am Not A Protected Veteran

     ...need house sleep with men
     come after not too bad.
                       —John Ashbery

need? can’t say no to that,
but perhaps more importantly
is strong desire. yes, i’m back

in the isolation tank, and this
week not so much feening but
feening dating/intimacy (none

whatsoever for over a year now).
not obsessing over the why of this
fact, but instead, mulling over what

a reminder it is that my life is
so precisely upside down; so opp-
osite. i’ve had my moments,

but the past five years now
are a new map. one that has
been impossible for me to de-

cipher. a flat earth, but not how
that antiquated notion must mean
to today’s trendy flat-earthers.

absurd. many days the question
is no longer about how to get
that (i.e., a) life back, but

will i ever get a life again?
par for the course, of course,
is that the upsides of living in

this isolation chamber are al-
so the downsides. the freedom
of joblessly setting one’s hours

(alas, the decision whether or not
to utilize this freedom to search
for employment, which, from my

observations, isn’t the most com-
mon choice amongst my neighbors
here in this first-step housing

apartment building). it’s home.
i can say that with a certain pride.
a certain pride. i try (desperately,

especially of late) the optimist’s
approach. which, thankfully, some-
how still seems to exist most often.

nevertheless, this freedom becomes
a prison unto itself. to stay idle is
often too easy. especially after what

got me here in the first place (not to
speak for most folks, but I would most
certainly get it if that were the over-

whelming reason for such lethargy).
but i choose the job of searching for a
job; an oddly, yet sometimes too easy

to understand why, difficult process.
meaning, simply, i never had difficulty
finding a job before. they always tend-

ed to just land in my lap. something i
obviously took for granted and makes
prevailing times even more awkward.

but as for my paid job (you can roll your
eyes if you’d like; many of you would —
even I have, in the past, when one’d make

this distinguishing point), when i am working
unusual amounts of overtime, for example,
or have very mind-numbing projects with

overly early deadlines, when i should be
too exhausted for any real work afterwards,
that’s when i find myself producing more.

art. more poetry. more of this attempt
at engagement. more of this attempt to
understand you. more of this attempt

to find those who might possibly begin
to get a glimpse into my own soul (with
all of its illogical geminic layers); might

possibly be interested in doing so.
more of this attempt to make the
things that have made me make

myself, and have made me love
myself, and have helped me in
my discovery of a stable value

system, as evolving as it is, this
magical sculpting that takes place
right in front of my eyes as i turn

page after page, which has also
gifted me with most of the people
whom i can earnestly call hero, and

many whom i can call friend. my other
job, when i have one, i appreciate very
much. it is a career that has known its

successes, too. of which i am proud.
and one that i do well. but, there
is no way to explain how much

i love my real work. sure, there’s
a problematic need to prove my-
self. to be listened to (even in the

isolation tank i am way too loud, i
know). to be, even if in some small
way, understood. it is also work

that can turn into a means of en-
gagement, or find you a true friend
(that rarity), can give someone the

joy you have in some way—from
what you do—the inspiration,
which is maybe the most imp-

ortant thing, i cannot say that i am
certain that i am not alone in
feeling or desiring these things

from the work which i call my
real job. however, for me, the
ultimate hope is that my words

and their architecture become
a means of engagement; not sim-
ply in one direction, but that there

is rapport: hearts and minds
having a conversation with the
me, even if just the pages of me.

growth, most always in a posit-
tive way, occurs primarily from
engagement. speaking. listening.

passion. adjustment. it’s also a
way to meet people; someone,
anyone, with whom i can connect

on a level that is so rare that it
seems in retrospect impossible to
do. a hope. (oh, i've believed.

i've felt such a connection. but,
as often as i can recall these mo-
ments, in the end, i turned out

to be sadly mistaken, sometimes
tragically so. but life is full of
disappointment. for me. on this

subject. i spend much of my life
living for it, nonetheless. and
haven’t lost that hope. if any-

thing it expands. not logical,
but worth noting. so all one
can do is try to make good out

of whatever you’re given. and
give back in a better way than
you’ve gotten. in the case of

the tough stuff, anyway. i 

try not to be a tragedy.
and have nightmares of

what seems to me would
be the most horrible trag-
edy of all. which, for me,

would be coming to a
horrible end in the midst
of a time such as the one

i have just lived through;
am still living through.
the only way to avoid

it, at best, is to remain
as happy as possible as
much as possible. and

i am generally very lucky
to be able to do just that.
or i hope to get back to

that point. in percent-
ages i certainly have the
wonderful stuff on my side.

anyway, you’ve gotten this
far with my foibles. or you
have arrived here, and let’s

say that you just might be
interested in knowing more
of the same. perhaps i am

too hopeful, but such a thing
could happen. seems to on
occasion. well, if so, even

in a generally slight way,
i say stay tuned here to
find out what happens,

whether tragic or comic.
if you just arrive, feel free
to back and catch up. it is

your decision, and if you
do, it would certainly tick-
le me pink. or at least such

a fantastical notion does al-
ready (as in, i’m pink). and
know this. there’ll not be a

sequel once it is over. so, i bid
you an adieu for today. and plan
to be back again in a day. or two.

mmdccclvi

Boiling An Egg

     No word on whether reverse psychology worked.
                                             —John Ashbery

In all of my years of
experimentation, I had
never burned one before.

Note to self: They’re
savages, all! Raise
your hand in the class-

room: How do I cash
a check without a check-
ing account? Teachers

tend to roll their eyes
when a student is stuck
between a rock and a

hard place. Waiting
in line at Market and
Kearny. Realizing (A-

gain! Again! Again!)
it’s all about class. Oo-
ps, I totally forgot how

to tiptoe. It’s Easter, and
there’s still a whole car-
ton of eggnog in here?

In all of my years of ex-
termination, I had nev-
er even boiled one before.

mmdccclv

she is writing through it in public
says closure happens for her through talking
                            —Stephanie Young

Do not put on others what you can put on your self.
                                          —John Ashbery

A drunk man mowing his lawn
somewhere in Florida was arr-
ested when he ran his lawn-
mower into a police vehicle.

He had more than three times
the legal limit of alcohol in
his system (to drive) and had
also apparently been doing

cocaine. I get my news from
late night talk shows, morn-
ing news and poetry books
that I can’t bring myself

to return to the public library;
I read what I love very slow-
ly, perhaps never to finish,
so that I can still be reading

it presently (I do this with
television shows that I love,
as well). I keep forgetting
to emerge from my small

box to venture around the
city in which I fought so
hard to remain. And it’s
hot as the dickens (as my

great-grandmother would
say) in my humble abode,
yet from my tiny forays
out of doors it has been

nothing but gorgeous
out. My weather. My city.
Maybe tomorrow. At
least being cooped in

all day and all night
has adjusted the pro-
blem with my (this)
long set of ramblings

(project) (a word I
used to hate using
in relation to poet-
ry). I lost every

single physical
thing which I had
accumulated in
half of a century

over the last two
years — except, as
it turns out, any-
thing digital. So

while my decades
of handwritten
journals or diaries
are now gone from

me forever (it isn’t
that sad, it turns out),
being a diligent dig-
ital hoarder for way

longer than the inter-
net, I possess every
bit of email corresp-
ondence since the

journals skipped town.
So, we repurpose; we
adjust accordingly. Sur-
vival, and all. (Note

to everyone but self:
a) change the rules as
often as daily; and b)
discipline, discipline!)

mmdcccliv

The Printing Planet

     Then you are interested in poetry.
                                  —John Ashbery

A heap of embarrassment is, like, today.
Makes me want to mainline embellish-
ment. Which is haute if not couture;
perhaps more couture than haute,
actually. What’s an outfit on a cat-
walk if not an elegant embellishment?
Embarrassment. And a means to escape
it. To rise above is the actual subject here.
Although there is no actual subject. Except
me. Whatever that is. Some of us try, bless
our humble hearts. And never have I been
more keenly aware that the subject, all
subjects, that everything is singly me.
That is, if I am to make any sense of this 

chaos, and of my falling one sad day in

to this rabbit hole; this isolation tank. 

We should all experience being alone
for a solid duration of time. How
can I love you if I don’t love my-
self? Higgledy-piggledy. My off-the-
cuff response is, Why, it’s quite easy,
thank you very much. But, like most 

of the words I make these days, it’d
be incorrect for me to say that. Of 

course I ... love? ... myself. The
world is me. I am one with the world
because I am the world. And, boy, am
I here to tell you all about the experience.

mmdcccliii

Married folks prefer the texasburger.
                                —John Ashbery

Although I’ve never been to the coast
of Houston (where Beyonce’s from)
I don’t mess with a state that gives
me constant heartburn. Maybe I

should refrain from being in att-
endance at any state, come to
think of it. Heartburn. But
time passes entirely too fast

and too slow as it is, as if
there were no time, and too

much of it. And all along the 

giant’s Death Star—because 

giants like playthings, too—

it’s not just heartburn I get.
It’s also the cold sweats
(and the extremely hot

ones), the night trains
and the heebie jeebies.
Every time. We walk
this planet but once,

says my darling in her
short and ghoulish skirt.
But there is no wind in
Texas, either. I exper-

ienced it once. It was
at the Alamo, I believe.
I’m surprised I remem-
ber. But I’m surprised

by a lot of stuff lately,
mostly in an aghast kind
of way, unfortunately.
If I were doomed to

be a sales sales rep-
resentative for the
Dallas/Ft. Worth
area, which is, let’s

be clear, a nightmare
from almost any
angle I can imagine,
at least I could showcase

the pretty boys. It’s an
art playing the part of
Fresh Meat well into your
thirties, but, well, hence

the hot flashes; the hot
sweats. Sometimes ex-
tremely hot. Like being
stuck in a stifling closet

for what seems like cen-
turies. Yes, horror mov-
ies and Texas go together
like birds of a feather.

But I can’t bear a horror
flick any more. They
give me heartburn when
they should be giving me

the heebie jeebies instead. 

I mean the good kind. Re

member those? Where was 

Agatha Christie from, any

way? It wouldn’t have 

been Texas. Whodunnits
are rad. Does it make
me interesting if I say

that cold sweats are
a bit fun; hot sweats
not at all? But let’s
be serious: I’ll

never get to be
a murder mystery.
But Texas will? Oh,
and I have a bro-

ther in Texas. I al-
almost forgot. At
least I think I do. I
know I did once. But

we haven’t spoken in
years now (people
avoid those who
seem perfectly fine

but then run into
serious long drawn-
out problems; but I
digress...). In good

times, in bad times....
Or the part about
being for richer
or poorer, in sick-

ness and in health,
til death do us part.
Yeah, that part. I
have heard that in-

cessant digression is
a sign of dementia.

It’ most certainly a

symptom of pressured

speech. And I should 

know, having been diag

nosed. But what can

one do otherwise

with sappy songs and 

broken promises. Or
Or thus I’ve been told.
Them’s the breaks.

As for my tasteful choice

for where to put up a 

picket fence residence, 

I hope he’s having a won

derful life.  The only
person I’ve known
who seems to get
the importance

of hedonism yet
has the exact opp-
osite problem with
happiness. But I’ve

learned all too well
what a mess most
everyone is (sure,
me included). My

romantic hope is 

that all find it, this

so-called happiness.
On the Death Star. 

Or wherever it is.
As for me, I might
as well non seq-
uitur into a fin-

ish—and with a
flourish—this glam-
orous Southern epic
with one more love-

ly, true (and impossible
not to do) cliché that
pretty much reeks
of the Lone Star State.

[Now I am singing, of
course:] Don’t
fall in love with
a dreamer.

Well, I can’t
exactly end
with that,
can I? I’ve

spent many
somewhat
good times
in that country

that goes on
forever and
seems like an
alternate uni-

verse. I know it
quite intimately,
you might say. I
recommend, in

fact, that you
try, for example,
Austin, for a day
or two. Or Dallas,

but only after the
sun has set. Or ent-
ering the state by
crossing the Rio

Grande on an
Amtrak train,
knowing full well
that in less than a

week you’ll be cross-
ing it once again, only
this time heading in 

the right direction.