Saturday, August 31, 2019

mmcxi

     Set the tone.

     Re-set the system.

     Destroy all monsters.

     Resuscitate them.

     We’re even.
                      —Suzanne Stein

I’ll say!  Only
I didn’t.
But if I did,
I would have.

The joke’s
on me, of course.
It always is, thought
the monster, all the way

to the bank in
Denver (the one
in the movie that
doesn’t get

blown up).  Speak-
ing of exploding
... ... ...     Oh, hi.
I wanted to tell you

(wanted to say)
that only just now
(right here, today)
I signed my life away,

away!!  On the 
Happiness Spectrum
(were there ever such
a thing), I’d be about

a ten.  As in Bo?
asked Frankenstein,
with all of the earnest-
ness of a pink polka-

dotted mini-dress.
Press regress.
(Not regrets.)  I’m
picking you up

at SFO tomorrow.
Be a chum and
bring some bootie,
will you?  For the

one-legged baby?
I love you more
than all of the
other monsters.

Friday, August 30, 2019

mmcx

       Obviously there is something hallucinatory
       in the hammering of caskets.
                                           —Jack Spicer

“Oh, Goddess of San Francisco,” I begin, 
and then I pause just a bit to wonder who
that might be (I have some ideas).  I say
pay a lot of lip service to the recently de-

parted; actually, I would intervene here to

supercede the recently deceased with 
the cumulative dead, in general.  I say
pay a lot of lip service to the success-

fully superceded intervention. Humans 

shouldn’t have expiration dates, either, 
being people and all.  Do I hear no ap-
plause from the goddesses’ gods? They 

(we) should come and go as we please.  Well, it 
must be relayed, as of course we all know, that
they (we) do. Have expiration dates. Which
(and here the audience lauds thunder-

ously) “ARE A BIT TO THE RIGHT

AND DOWN A TIDGE FROM THE BOT-
TOM OF THE BARCODE (THEIR B...s,
OUR B....s).  At any random moment

there are always a few gods on teevee,

watching over us for a few seasons.
We know which because they are 
usually the ones that are uncharac-

teristically mild (nothing but a bow-

ling ball in tornado alley, that one
tsunami in the little fish pond in the
pasture, the heatwave that hits the

beehive...and only the beehive, etc.).

They each (these gods) take an extra
long spring break that often lasts through
at least the summer, if not infinity.  At 

least this used to be the case.  Omni-

potence has its own downsides (it
is here that I become hungry and
think instead its own drumsticks;

it being omnipotence and all).  I.e.,

try attempting to visit this life in an 
unusually concealed godlike manner.
This trick makes any concealer's eye-

wear much less blatant (just ask the
eyewear, the most vaudevillian
of the accoutrements).  And speak-
ing of pizzazz, I’m a HUGE fan!

What I do is split it into 10ths (no 

matter the original size, although it
turns out to most often be personal), 
give or take, and split the glorious gore

with my pals down the sidewalk.  My 
sidewalk pals occasionally sleep in con-
cerned tents.  But lately there’s been a 
lot of tentlessness down the sidewalk.  Oh,

and there’s also the pizza problem

and the various skirmishes that ensue.  
I’ve seen some doozies, let me tell 
you!  And, lest any of you forget, 

I am telling you.  Or am I?  Anyway,  a-
mongst my pals down the sidewalk, there is 
of course Hammock Man, who always gets the fir 
(or maybe it is a furry cedar, or, as we call it, 

“That Christmas Tree Most Prickly and 
Most Dense!”) all to himself, and there’s 
the one or two who get the fire for the night 
(varying pals, each of whom, on their fire night, 

we call “The Nesters”), there’s those who pre-
fer to get caught quickest by the rising sun 
(and we call this rather elite crew “Morning 
People”).  Hammock Man has it best.  

He’s always hidden from reality during each 
segue between a pair of days (at least those with 
some semblance of sunlight throughout, I should 
clarify).  Hammock Man loves it up there.  He calls 

his gigantic cedar or fir tree Christmas.”  Houdini,
he most definitely is not, as the falls from such 
heights have been the catalyst for at 
least three broken toes (never adjusted), 

his right leg popping right out of his pelvis (we,
neither of us, yet know the technical term for this, 
but it has got to be the most painful thing I have ever
personally witnessed anyone endure, for sure) and

there was one fall after which an urgent surgery en-
sued (something about a few of the tree’s needles stuck
clean through his spine, which makes his cedar seem 
more of a pine, if you ask me).  Ever since that 

particular incident, Ol’ Hammock’s been severely 
in love with the word coccyxso much so that the 
tentants and the tentless have become a little bit 
annoyed by the man whose every day is Christmas.  

This same crew, nevertheless, manage the ap-
pearance (at least) of a genuine laugh every single
time Hammock utters the word. “Coccyx [laughter]!”  
I presume you get the picture.  But Hammock Man, at least

by our calculations, has never even emitted as much as 
a chuckle (when it comes to laughter and its kin, that is).  
And you can be fairly assured that he has led quite the
extensive existence, too.  But he does have those lovely 

and perpetual rose-red cheeks, which always convey 
a kind of laughter.  They also, I’d say, convey em-
barrassment, shyness, that there might a bit of a 
crush in the near vicinity (or perhaps perpetually some-

where in his meaty head).  Or Christmas, I suppose.  
And what is Christmas but a reminder of Easter. 
Which is but a reminder (for me, at least) of the 
oft-performed ritual amongst my pals down the 

sidewalk which some call “The Coffin Tent,” some 
“The Old Tentament,”  and others, simply, “Oh,
 Body Bag!”  And this group will often sing it as 
a song to the tune of Oh Tannenbaum (replacing the

title of the song with their phrase for the ritual).

Sure, it’s a ritual that verges on the grotesque,
perhaps, given the morbidity and all, but what’s
death but a natural event we each get to experience 

in one way or the other (be that experience to end

all experiences is grotesque and beautiful—that 
precious beauty that is in the eye of the beholder; 
that beauty that can turn the grotesque into, well, 

beauty itself, or be it anywhere in between)—so I say 
why not celebrate in some way or another, no matter
how often the occasion; I’ve rarely ever had the notion 
to look for any excuse for a bit of a celebration, after all,

no matter how it might be partaken.  Plus, a coffin
made of tent is so less problematic than the
hollowed out trunk of a tree.  especially as
there’s not a single nail or hammer to worry about.  

And, think about it:  the life” of the party, so 
to speak, in certain inclement weather (that which
is particularly wet) is easily slid by the pallbearing 
facsimile (or two) with a fair bit of ease, all the 

way down to the bay (which isn’t as far away 
as one would likely imagine), and even when it’s 
dry day, it’s not such a struggle to drag down 
the sidewalk, or the avenue, depending on the

time of death, given rush hour and all (or, rather, 
given the time of the discovery of the corpse, I 
interventionally supersede, caught up in my own 
little moment, as it were...)—although on

these days the comfy casket will likely encounter a 
snag or two, inevitably gathering a few fairly gaping 
hole on its sleep-bottom; but no one seems to mind, 
or even notice much.  Once at the bay we each 

do our thing (we are a diverse crew, for certain, 
so there is quite an assortment of things that 
might be done at the tail end of this path that be-
comes the besotted burial of the tented carcass).  

But soon after arrival at the bay’s edge, the 
tented body gets clumsily tossed into the metallic-
colored waters of the bay and then it half-floats away, 
often in the direction, as it turns out, of that spot 

directly behind “The Tentament,” as we call it.  
Or that’s what Herman always calls it, anyway.

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

mmcix

You Used to Be Here

You used to be here
reading this, but now
that there’s no to-
morrow, you keep get-

ting interrupted by the
badges on your little
rectangular hook,
where I’m having 

a hard day means a
lonely man in a lonely
room with a bottle
of powdery residue

the color of tequila. 
He doesn’t rem-
ember the joy of int-
eruption.  He just re-

members that he is
having a hard day.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019

mmcmviii

Last Chance

No more wor
rying or pussy
footing around.
No muss no f
uss no eggs
hells.  You th
ink I’m sad?  W
ell, of course,
said the horse.
It’s a curse to be cl
ung to by not but a
broad with a string
bikini or an equa
tor the size of a
speedo.  it would
n’t even matter 
if my quicksand 
brain knew the 
quagmire it was
in (with me).  It’s
a good day to boo
gie.  Cuz it’s a
good day.  Right?
Your kimono’s ask
ance like your, I wan
na say face, but com
mon sense.  Since
who wants to be a
millionaire?  Not me.
It’s more the being
with theone that gas
ps that automatic ga
sp (the one with the
million).  Yr gash &
the electric gas oo
zes in slimy little
streamlets down
your chin.  With y
ou, it’s urchin on ev
ery menu. Uni, yo
u say like correct
ive tape for the ty
pewriter.  The non
electric kind of type
writer.  Like the one
you always use whi
lst riding on your uni
cycle like an urchin.

Monday, August 26, 2019

mmcmvii

Sometimes we were almost like lovers
                                 —Jack Spicer

Fast, furious,
never having
met.  Just dat
ed, night after
night (your 
days).  These
days the TNT
explodes,
coming out
of the web’s
holes like 
smoke ris-
ing from 
ears.  Y
our ears,
too sweet
to smoke.
There’s
no soul
anyway,
as you 
like to 
say.  Or
is that 
all in 
my head?
We con
quered
each o
ther, ch
ained our
selves to
gether th
rough that
hole in the
center of
the earth.
They dug
all the way
through it,
you know.
I didn’t
believe it
either, how
magma 
cures all
ills.  In
fact, I
think,
as I 
chase
the ch
ain, my
attempt
to find 
our end 
of this
world, 
until I
can s
ee my
toes 
melt,
I did
not be
lieve in
anything
but you.

Sunday, August 25, 2019

mmcmvi

A Letter to Foghorn Leghorn

     Just can’t live anymore.
     Always happy to shoot the breeze.
                                      —John Ashbery

It’s driving me stupid that I
have an announcement to make.

That said, what you smell is pro-
bably not what you think:  it’s the

sugar cookies, shaped like armadillos,
almost ready to be removed from the

oven, cooled a bit and then sprinkled
with sugar the color of a tuna (or the

bulldozed tenement block down on the
East Side as it is readied for this week’s

episode of To Scrape the Sky) and then
toted up to our mouths for melting (you)

or for swallowing whole (me).  The cow-
gals are out in the desert, their meat-

packs ready to explode.  And we’re here
knifing footnotes into the glass coffee

table, always kids in junior high.  Some-
body at the newspaper stand this morning

said “Whew!  It’s a hot one today!”
and I thought he was commenting on my

new blue pajama top.  I almost wore that
russet onesie.  That’s how alive I felt!  The

ingredients arrived fresh this morning from
Zanzibar.  Or at least I think that’s what the

man in uniform told me, but not before adding
that “the Tazmanian cinnamon hunks weren’t

available this week.”  And you know me, I didn’t
cry or anything.  I just put down my hand mixer

(Sorry about the glops on the porch, by the
way!) and gave him the biggest bear hug ever.

Tuesday, August 20, 2019

mmcmv

He had forced the stones to listen.
                                   — Jack Spicer

“What’s so interesting about being pre-
dictable,” he said.  And I thought about it.

Monday, August 19, 2019

mmcmiv

Tragedy Over Triumph

She was a head of lettuce
just trying to find her feet
in a stadium crammed
full of ravenous zombies.




Sunday, August 18, 2019

mmcmiii

Thwacking to the Threshold
      
      The usual definition of fun is:
      quite comfortable when they are.
                                —John Ashbery

Where there is food to be had
there is food to be eaten, di-
gested, bowed down to with
smallish scythe.  It is possible
that seeds or seedlings dropped
accidentally between the front
door and the kitchen might take
hold and root within this home
of solitude, where once the tears 
of heartache or tears of laughter
from the children, the mother,
the decades-gone father might
have made it seem as if the
Great Power brought life a-
fresh into this dank abode.
Life can get lost.  What of
the aftermath of such a loss.
Depending on the loss, she
mutters as she sinks deeply
into the cupboard to pull out
a forgotten biscuit stick. The
jackpot of the year, she goes
on about the unopened crack-
ers.  Salt on the wound.  Salt
on the sea.  Salt on the chops
and, if lucky, a winter cube 
for the battleax, dry of but
a trickle of milk for over a
year now, which she still 
sees through her cataracts
as The Heifer, a gift from 
a long-gone pastor of a
now non-existent church
(unless the husks of corn
steaming through a long-
forgotten purgatory be a
congregation; an existence 
in search of the next set of 
poor souls that trudge through 
the hollow and ascend onto
this lost stretch of flat, ex-
pansive scalp of land,
with its thinning, dun-
colored, gently-swaying, 
uncut stubble).  That hag 
of a heifer who’d given 
but that trickle for over 
year now.  Ah, but she had
her golden years—her udder
swollen, butter and milk
for the ages—even a few
delicate cheeses, she al-
most grins, almost cries, 
her five grown children 
(there were two addition-
al that were still-born
and one dead of the can-
cer, not even a toddler) 
now somewhere out 
on the Great Frontier:
for gold, for dreams of
a less dank existence,
for anything but this. 
She looks askance toward
the bolted door, never
knowing anything but
the dank and, there-
fore, knowing nothing
of dank, the odor of its
mildew and mold a sour
luster with which she has
aways inhabited without
judgment. She walks the
distance between kitchen
and door, toenails hitting
the dirt floor of her the
home where she’s lived
alone for some eleven
years now, her toes so
curled from the years
spent threshing for ex-
istence, for subsistence.
She bends down after
brushing the wealthiest
of the middling splashes 
of green on the floor
of her home with the
nails of her feet.  The
shock of coolness that
instantly flowed upward,
from the bottom of her 
feet to her breast, has her
breath momentarily caught
in a brief but clear encounter 
with feeling— that elusive 
desire so easy to for-
get when a life has
long seen nothing
save the depravity
of a steadfast home 
and the wild prairie 
that envelops it.
The devil you
know, she sud-
denly says, as if
the phrase were
something of a
delightful exple-
tive.  And she
plucks the green
from the floor and
she takes it into
her mouth, all
but the dry-caked
root, which she holds
at her lips as she lets 
the babes of leaf sit up-
on her tongue and wid-
en her cheeks for a
few seconds, savoring,
more of an abrupt in-
halation than a swal-
lowing, of that shal-
low sweetness that is
is the brief vapor that
the leaves give as they
wilt enough to gain
a bit of traction to-
ward inevitability.

Saturday, August 17, 2019

mmcmii

     A god grew there, a god grew there,
     A wet and weblike god grew there.
                                         —Jack Spicer

I still can’t think of paradise
without thinking of you.  How

many nights, the view of the
plummeting vista—the

ridge correcting its course—
are sideswiped by these

fantastical visions?  You lie,
knees bent upward on the

beach of a non-existent is-
land?  What I mean by that

is a blaring love that per-
meates the sinking earth—

that is one with the sound
of the earth as it sinks ever

deeper—and the spindrift
that smolders the Pacific.

Friday, August 16, 2019

mmcmi

any spin
gets red
uced to
suspen
se.  cliff
side full
of gossi
p from
which t
o hang
over.  I
crave
truth
hopin
g it’s
much
more.
comp
lain of
the inv
estiga
tion of
the fire
crack
er’s sen
se of
self.
and
you’ll
smoke;
you’ll
find the
mirrors.

Thursday, August 15, 2019

mmcm

I Can’t Hear You

     I'm gonna marry the night.
                                 —Lady Gaga

     (I know there’s a way to do this.)
                                 —John Ashbery

Am I listening?

Am I listening
as the blood
boils hot be-
neath your
skin; your
blood is
wax?

Choc-
olate
lips to
open the
door with.

Fortune
cookies
to heal
your wounds.

Banana peels
(anti-inflammatory
proxy) to get
you from the
homeland

where
the sand
develops
a reaction
to your knees,
your knees
which have
become
cupcakes
of sand
with sand
for the icing
(a local coolant).

Do you under-
stand what I
am saying?

[CALMLY]

Come up
from below
the water and
breathe and
breathe.

Look up
to the sun
and speak

[SLOWLY]

and speak,

happy as the
translucent
fish who
greet
your
every
dive in-
to the deep
with reluct-
ant glee

and who
eagerly
await
your
departure.


    

Tuesday, August 13, 2019

mmdcccxcix

Buddy Movies

    that’s burt with a bee.
                   —the bees

“breaker one niner.   burt here.”

“reynolds?” ...

“that’s a rap!”

Sunday, August 11, 2019

mmdcccxcviii


Welcome to the Worksmack

  • complete onboarding paperwork (reams of it!)
  • 200 pages of SHAMPOO
  • contact Medical
  • contact CalFRESH
  • administer Phase 3 of Master Plan
  • new W-4 completed and turned in
  • keep completion of Worksmack docs: #1 priority
  • remember: we place top priorities at the top of the list
  • it’s Dharmail Glockwood (get email addy)
  • Nelly Tinfoily Tolbert (note to self: new character’s name)
  • replace lost friends with real ones
  • same goes for preoccupation of dodo exes (replace, replace, then place dodos out of mind/out of sight) (note: can check off; but leave on list as reminder; keep up the good work!!)
  • pat self on back on occasion
  • Email Blur B (note to self: new title; found on Worksmack’s website)
  • edit/redo list at the top of every morning
  • edit/redo list at the bottom of every day
  • social life (note to self; chin up)
  • keep one eye on all three calendars at all times!


Friday, August 09, 2019

mmdcccxcvii

The Performance

One of these things is not like
the other, she sings, putting on
her mismatched pair of socks,
which she thoroughly believes,
thanks to the fact that he had, she
now remembers, just recently been
informed of the fact that she had
recently performed a few spon-
taneous acts that could quite
well be interpreted (or as she
tends to think in such cases,
could be debated) as being
questionable; such as the old
monogamy argument or, as
he would put it, the old marr-
iage-in/appropriate quandry.
As her guilt built within, she
knew this was why she, ob-
sessive compulsive to the
core, had been dealt the
pair of mismatched socks
to begin with.  He was the
launderer, after all (to her
credit, she most often did
the cooking and the dog-
walking, while the two of
them “equally shared” the
housecleaning, although
even she knew that the
word “equally,” if not also
the word “shared,” did not
fit justly into the vicinity of
reality.  As for the mismatched
sock, and whether this was yet
another example of his passive-
aggressive method of seeking
revenge, which he would always
grinningly call justice, to which she’d
always zing him back with the cliché,
An eye for an eye makes the
whole world blind!!  ...  well,
although it was next to imposs-
ible for her to spend her ent-
ire workday wearing socks
that didn’t match (in this par-
ticular case, not even slightly),
she could not help but to titter
a bit and the pair of unmatched
revenge.  One might say she
even glowed with obvious
joy during and after her
initial reaction to his joke
(during which there may
have been a swear word
or two involved).   it was,
after all, he who’d (just
like every weekday morn-
ing handed her the paper bag
filled with her dinner and her
pair (or un-pair today) of work-
socks, as she walked out the
door and into the day.  And
even though it was a funny
little titter, it was also the same
sound she always made when
she laughed in earnest—mean-
ing it was her real laugh; some-
thing her three (or, at times,
four) best friends would
heartily verify (quite often
along with some untittering,
more quantifiably genuine
laughter of their own).  This
wacky laugh of hers, which to
her was not wacky at all, of
course, quite often had a way
make strangers, new acquaint-
ances, quite uncomfortable upon
hearing the first few times (espec-
ially when it was unusually protract-
ed; or multiply repeated within a
relatively short duration).  Never-
theless, the tittering had ironically
enough been a significant ingre-
dient of the circumstances of their
very first meeting (the meeting of
her and him, that is). It was in that
cliché of environs in which we
certainly assume a fairly high
percentage of lovebirds wind
up, well, being lovebirds (with
varying durations ranging from
cliché’d—she really loved
that word, she thought—singu-
lar night to the very long-term en-
gagement; a word which had her
tittering again for a moment).
and, these thoughts were, in
actuality, buzzing around in
her skull at the time, she just
could not release her mind
of a bombardment of happy
and nostalgic thoughts from
the past twenty years that
had taken residence in “the
attic’ (his phrase) for a
few days now.  for in a matter
of days, roughtly equivalent
to the days in which her mind
had been thusly preoccupied,
the two of them would see
the twentieth anniversary of
the night in which they had
their wedding vows, which
transpired deep in the entrails
of a gorgeous cathedral in the
middle of nowhere, Vermont,
where she was now picturing
as if a camera in the cathedral
on that very day, the two of them
and the officiary standing the deep-
est within, in front ofa modest-sized
group of their respective family
members and close friends). 
They had, in in fact, met only
a few weeks before in a bar
that was somewhat local to the
two of them, although neither
had ever been there before,
and had certainly never met
the other until that day when 
she’d  barely noticed
(at first) a rather nervous
gentleman take an ex-
tended amount of time
seating himself at the
empty (except for her,
and now him) long bar—
upon the top of a barstool
that was, with respect to her,
directly to her right. She had
already given the bartender
her card to close out the tab,
and the last remnant of the
order for which she was pay-
ing sat at her right elbow,
practically filled, since
it had only as of yet
been given a singular
sip.  The man at last
situated his butt some-
what solidly upon the
tall stool, when she
felt him tap at her
(and rather loudly)
upon her elbow.  Or
she thought he’d
tapped.  She
quickly turned
her head to the
right, head down-
ward, eyes upward,
aiming directly into his,
and with a clear, ready-to-
tell-this-end-of-the-night
rapscallion-what-was-what
look (which had become
a rote performance which
generally began with how
happily single she presently
was—how much, in fact,
that she absolutely adored
being single—and which
ended with something
akin to ...so ya might as
well give it up now, fella!). 
But.  Just as she caught
his eyes in the gaze
of hers, she understood
that this guy had decid-
edly NOT been vying for
her attention, at least not
in any way that seemed
(she had suddenly deemed)
inappropriate (and she was
very perceptive.  She was
momentarily mystified,
and remained frozen in
that missile-precise gaze
of hers for what would
been, from any objective
perspective within the
nearly empty bar, an
awkwardly long time.
So, rather than pay at-
tention to what he had
actually done (which was
an extension of the awk-
ward duration of situating
himself on the barstool, ex-
cept but slightly more potent-
ially catastrophic):  which
was that he had managed to
tip her last drink, which had
been a tumbler almost entirely
filled with Bloody Mary, which
was (and still is; she is one
of those rare folks who
understand the drink to
be undeniably non-spec-
ific with respect to the app-
ropriate time of day to im-
bibe) her favorite cocktail
(and, it had to be admitted,
she got a very specific
kind of joy from ordering
one at one—or even half-
past one—right before a
local bar or restaurant stopped
serving any alcohol-instilled drink
whatsoever, the law being the
law, as it were).  So, not
only was the thin sleeve
of her blouse drenched by
the veritable blood of Mary,
but so was the general vicinity
(or, more truthfully, the entire 
vicinity) of the section of
that same thin blouse which
covered her right breast.  In
fact, there were even a
few splashes that made
their individual ways upon
her slightly-rounded, and
completely unadulterated
(until now, of course, but
in particular without even
a swath of make-up)
and by now giddily-
flushed cheeks; glimmer-
ing red splotches on both
the left and the right, thanks
to her swift turn of intended
reproach.  This hap-
pened in a much
more drawn out
time in the minds
of the both of them
than could have
literaly been pos-
sible, as they would
later, and often, recount
it.  It would be told in the
company of friends, per-
haps after a long and
hearty meal or in front
of a Christmas tree.  It
would sometimes occur
as what would seem an
anecdotal segue from
whatever came directly be-
fore it, or as an almost comed-
ically staged performance that
would seem to spontaneously
erupt.  And their audience was
always rapt, amused, admiring
and envious (often all at once),
even though most had already
heard it, had seen its half-
reenactment/half fantastical-
performance-piece, at least
once or twice before.  This
bit would also occur routinely
with no one else present, just
the two of them, sometimes
in quite the intimate manner,
and just as often at a seeming-
ly random time as it happened
at times that might seem less
arbitrary, such as after watching
a particularly sweet sitcom at home
on the living room sofa together, or
while driving (which would
most often occur with her
behind the wheel, him in
the passenger seat—unless
they were in a group of some
sort, in which case he
would usually drive while
she sat in the middle of
the back seat, the “life of
the party,” as always)
their somewhat dinged
Pontiac either up or
down the Pacific Coast
Highway). On some occ-
asions their performance
came out in sultry
whispers, filled with
innuendo, as the
were lying, side-by-
side at bedtime,
both of them in an
almost dream-state
trance, directly before
the two fell deeply and
almost simultaneously
into sleep for the night
(or it might begin in the
same type of dream-state,
before they decidely did
not fall asleep for the
night), after the lights
were finally turned out.
Sometimes it began
early of a morning, one
of them trying to wake
the other so as not to
have either of them
oversleep for work,
or whatever the day
held in store for each
of them, whether it would
transpire with together or
whether they’d go
their separate ways for
the duration of the day. 
This routine of theirs
might take on new
and exaggerated
changes, or witty,
more subtle ones,
but it always ended,
in that infinitely-
envied way wherein
not one soul would
have ever disbelieved
that a fragment of what
they told were the least
bit untrue and, whether
cognizant or not by
either member of this
dynamic duo, spoke
in absolute unison, with:
And it was love at first sight.
To which she would add
that she had never even
paused, not for one tiny
moment, until well after
they walked out of that
bar (emptying it together
newly emboldened, their
insides buzzing with
the giddiness of youth)
to see the mess he and the
Bloody Mary had made
of her and her blouse.
After which he’d add
something like how he
had been such an
awkward fellow
until he had met her.

Tuesday, August 06, 2019

mmdcccxcvi

Mister Goldenpepper says

funk lot
sasquatch
(yeti)

standing
where

entwine
underwear

swollen raw
to the juice

a heat-seek-
ing Burberry
bear

choices
authenticity

eradicating
me, sitting here

out of no-
where

Monday, August 05, 2019

mmdcccxcv

Until the Cows Come Home

We had a farm
in Arkansas, 
picture myself
as Meryl Streep
almost whispering
(except still in that
Out of Africa Dutch/
African accent).  I
am a couple of
miles from being
a true hillbilly (and
while I have The
Ballad of Jed 
Clampett play-
ing full volume
in my head I am
seeing Eva Gabor,
or a much more
modern Paris
Hilton; in other
words, The
Beverly Hill-
billies in rev-
erse.  Why is
that? I wonder.)

Anyway, I am
an Arkansan in
San Francisco.
And, while I have
had my ups and
downs, at least
I still have my 
humor about
me.  And my 
pride.  An am-
algamation 
(truth be told) 
of humor and
pride of South-
ern, Midwestern,
Northeastern
and, most
assuredly,
Western,
from the 
good old 
USA.

And I’d
very much
like to
keep it
that way.