mmdcccliii (#2)

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.  Every time. 

We walk this planet but once,

says my darling in her short 

and ghoulish skirt.  But there’s 

no wind in Texas, either.  Well,

I experienced it once.  It 

was at the Alamo, I’m 

surprised to remember. 

But I’m surprised

by a lot of stuff lately,
mostly in an aghast 

kind of way.  If I 

were doomed to

be a sales sales rep-
resentative in 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.  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.  In good times,

in bad times....  Or the 

part about for richer or

poorer, in sickness and 

in health, til death do

us part.  Yeah, that part. 

I have heard that in-

cessant digression is
a sign of dementia.

It’s 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
thus I’ve been told.
Them’s the breaks.  As

for my tasteful choice for 

where to put up a picket 

fenced residence, I hope 

he’s having a wonderful 

life.  He’s the only person 

I know who practices 

hedonism but can’t find 

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 exists.
As for me, I might
as well non sequit-
ur into a finish—

and with a flourish

—this glamorous 

Southern epic with 

one more lovely, 

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? All my

exes live some

where else?  I’ve

spent many some

what good times in 

country that goes 

on forever and

seems like an
alternate universe.  

I know such terrain
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.