mmcmxxiv

Smear

Turn on
the tee
vee. W
atch all
the hyp
ocrisy.
Smear
a knife
full of
pean
ut butt
er over
the last
pieces
of the
dark
loaf
from
who
knows
when.
Give
out a
few
span
kings
for Ha
lloween
tricks.
Look d
own the
hallway
at who’s
coming
by for
his tr
eat now
(of all the
times)....
Slam the
door shut.
Call it
a day.

mmcmxxiii

I forget

the plan-
et revolves

around

the sun.

The moon

joins too

soon. A

crow on a

wire is

worth two

on a cell-

phone.

“It ain’t

the plan-

et that’s

dyin’,” says

my Grandma

Hazel in

my head,

“it’s the

roll of a

pair of dice.”

Which

makes

“paradise”

her last

exhalation.

Another

game of

trivia that

the saints

play like

chess

while 

we pond-
er our

next 

move.

Like we

do the

plastic

oceans.

mmcmxxii

Pill Popping Pilferers

Pill popping pilferers often do not 
even realize that they are pilferers,
that they have been pilfering.  One
of them might come home of an
evening to discover a series of
baubles in her pockets, some twenty
dollar bills and a baby’s pacifier, 
and she’s pretty sure she hasn’t been
to one of those Union Square eng-
agement ring / fancy gemstone stores
(“I was hanging in Oakland with
friends last night, right?” she mum-
bles to herself).  She knows without
a doubt that she’s been flat broke for
months now and is still surprised by
Jackson’s gigantic head, even though 
deep down she knows this is not a recent 
development in paper money.  Bobble-
headed presidents and statesmen and 
women (she wonders for a moment 
and then decides no on stateswomen) 
and famous inventors (like most of us in 
this country, she took American History
and has probably therefore yet to
catch up with the reality, or surreal-
ity, of the things she knows most to
be tried and true). She remembers 
that Ed gave her money a few days 
ago for a bottle of rum (airport sized, 
plastic, so $5 was the grand sum) but
has no idea how she has now been
jinxed with such an inevitably joyous 
but also downright scary, in that 
utter lack of remembering way.
And she’d been through similarly 
frenzied pocket discoveries where,
in the end, that initial excitement 
had been entirely erased.  Nope, any 
joy from what she’d found in the 
bulging depths of her hand-pockets,
it was not pretty, and she winced at 
the thought.  And as for the baby pacifier, 
she placed it immediately in her mouth and 
began sucking it loudly, tiny little droplets 
coming from her eyes.  And she hadn’t 
even bothered to wipe the nubbin clean.

mmcmxxi

Crisis

The bowling alley was drenched.
He stands at the gate of depart-
ure, wondering, Should I stay or
should I go?  The pastel-colored
eggs in the gigantic basket were
misshapen.  Suddenly, she rem-
embers the roll of film that she
had dropped into her generous 
vodka martini.  Poor Ginger has 
a strong distaste for ginger (and
also for lemongrass).  Chomp-
ing for minutes over the bowl,
knowing he looked like a horse,
he regretted spooning up the
last dregs of soup into his
mouth with greed (for
it was a spoonful of no-
thing but lemongrass,
as it turned out).  I am 
eternally amazed at how 
she does it, those mir-
aculously perfect hot
buns.  The District
Attorney melted slow-
ly and sweetly into the
District Superintendent's 
lonely mouth (same district).  
All of the humans missed the
parade in Area 51 that Monday
afternoon.  Gigantic fluorescent
bulbs light the Grand Canyon
tonight.  An alternate universe
where Billy Joel is the super-
model.  Pillow Talk, starring
Doris Day and Dale Evans.
The starship Enterprise crash-
lands on the planet Tatooine.

mmcmxx

How much longer are you gonna be here?
                               —Kris Jenner  

I do not watch television.
I guess what I really mean
is I watch tv quite rarely.
These days, anyway.

This was not always the
case.  I turned the te-
levision off for about
ten years around 2000
(the year that I moved 
to San Francisco, as it
turns out). Because it 
was all Reality TV, Who
Wants to Be A Money
Money Money Money, 
American Idol.  Even
Lost looked like a cross
between a soap opera
and Survivor to me.
To me, television 
was filled with no-
thing but total trash.

Then, about a decade
later, with a huge new
television, and a room-
mate who watched it
(at least Nick at Nite
and the Cartoon Net-
work) I’d occasion-
ally watch TV.

During that decade
plus, I got used to
enjoying shows I
never watched but
learned to love.  It
was a couple thing,
it seems upon re-
flection.

Soon, network shows
exploded on the internet.
That’s how i look at it, any-
way.  Suddenly, after binging
on Mad Men and Damages,
watching TV was not synony-
mous with having a lobotomy,
or at least having one’s
intelligence (should one
have it) insulted.

These days there’s Netflix 
and Hulu and Amazon and 
CBS (Yes, CBS has been
around forever, but that
is a network to which I’d
certainly subscribe, were the
extra money necessary to 
do so at my disaposal.
Should I add only
because of the 
new Star Trek?).
Even HBO 
seems
a must
again,
just

to 
keep 
up with
pop culture.
And there are
so many good shows.
When Meryl Streep
appears on a weekly
drama, you know
the world has
changed.

So why am I
writing this
poem sitting
here in my 
friends’ hotel
room (We happen
to be watching
The Kardashians.

It’s my first 
time, I feel it nec-
essary to add.)?  I
feel old as I try not to
listen to what they are 
saying on the monster set 
in front of the cushy hotel 
couch upon which I am sitting.  

And uncomfortable
and embarrassed
as the world moves
away from me.

mmcmxix

Second in a Pair of Poems Found in 
a 2017 Leatherbound Calendar 
Picked Up on a SOMA Sidewalk:

THE PRESIDENTS BUSH

for Ellen Degeneres —— because she is my hero

mmcmxviii

Found Love Poem

mmcmxvii

Ted and the Giant Pumpkin Book

I am an extrovert
who has social
anxiety.  It is to
be expected.  I
am a Gemini.

It is said that
dogs yawn
uncontroll-
ably when
they are 

anxious.
I gleaned
this striking
tidbit from
a Ted talk 

given by a
man named
Jon Ronson.
Jon read the
entire DSM

(which is the
now larger
than ever 
manual filled 
with a list with

descriptions 
of the 374
purported
mental dis-

orders) to
discover that 
amongst his
own were
generalized 

anxiety disorder, 
nightmare dis-
order, in which
he has recurrent
dreams of being

chased by
creatures where-
ver he goes 
who constantly
tell him that he

is a failure.
And he has 
malingering, 
which, accord-
ing to Psychology

Today, (accord-
ing to Google)
is “the purp-
oseful production
of falsely

exaggerated
physical and/
or psycholog-
ical syptoms
with the goal

of receiving 
a reward.”  I
am about a 
third of the
way through

this Ted Talk
on YouTube
and I’ve already
received quite
the reward.

I linger long
enough to hear
how Jon met
with a Scient-
ologist (because

of course he
wanted to meet
up with a critic of
psychiatry), a man
named Brian,

who he asked
“Can you prove
to me that psy-
chiatry is a 
pseudo-science?”

to which Brian
said “Yes, let me
introduce you 
to Tony,” who,
as it turns out

is in Broadmoor,
which used to be
known as The
Asylum for
the Critically 

Insane.  That
is as far as I 
have gotten.
I took a break
to write you 

this quick note
about our trip
to the Pumpkin
Patch (which 
you like to call

The Funny Farm).
We will take off
at 5 in the morn-
ing.  Dress warmly,
in layers.  There

may be a bit of 
sun; be sure to
wear a cap or
something.  
And we can

grab lunch in 
Half Moon Bay
on the way back
up, and be home
by around 6pm.

Sound good?
I know that I
suffer from de-
pression.  And
lately I have be-

gun to think
that I have a
set of imaginary
friends.  Well,
lately?  Act-

ually, I’ve had
them pretty much
as far back as I 
remember.  In
fact, that reminds

me, I must call
my friend Jim
this afternoon.
Anyway, I look
forward to see-

ing you this Sat-
urday.  No negative 
talk, remember? 
The glass is al-
ways half full!

mmcmxvi

Diaspora

     Sometimes you want to believe people are something that they are not.  By the time you
     realize who they are, it’s too late.
                                                                                            —Storm from the X-Men

What’s the matter,
did a cactus get
your tongue?

I could tell by the
tone of his voice
that he was having

a problem parsing
the package.  He 
went on with his

story, Anyway,
I could tell that
he had a little

sugar in his 
trunk.  At this
point I am caught

between a laugh
and what’s the
matter did a cactus 

get my tongue.
Salty Wednesdays.
Groups full ot tears

and sarcasm (group
meetings, reparation,
recreation, rumination,

graduation).  I won!
shouted the man at
the cash register.

We were at the
corner store.  I
knew Mr. Corner.

As the winner
walked out the
door I said, Hey,

Tony, another 
wiener, eh?
I cringed as

if I were the
one that was
cringeworthy.

Rama lama
ding dong,
Tony said,

unable to 
discontinue
laughing,

ha ha ha
Rama...ha
ha ha lama...

etc.  Happy
Humpday!
says my 

gabby 
comp-
anion

to nobody
and every-
body at the

same time
(it was just
the three of 

us in the 
store by 
now, but

you could
still hear
the winner

howling his 
way down
the street,

heading in
the direction
of what was

once my home
away from
home...)....

mmcmxv

Rewritten Arkansas

     You only have the right to piss in the fountain

     If you are beautiful.

                                           —Jack Spicer

Yesterday I did not

encounter any fount-

ains.  That is not true.

My youth is enshrined

within the hope for 
a future; I scan the

hustle and bustle 

around me at any

particular moment

until I spot the one

hustler and bustler

who brings a little

tingle up my spine.

The hustlers at

Union Square, no

different than the

bustlers at the

Metreon Target

or, I walk all

the way to 

Pier 39 

(always

loving to

play the 

tourist;

like the

hustler 

I believe

I am not,

nor never

could be, 

even I know

where to find

the best catch!)

until I spot

The One.

My work has

just begun.

I am enshrined

within the twill

(or the tulle)

of the until.

’Twill happen

one day,

this until.

Like Ponce

de Leon
searching

for, and be-

lieving he 

had found,

he had “dis-

covered” (as

we “learned”

in junior

high school;

the class:

Arkansas

History)

the glorious

Fountain of 

Youth, his

life-long dream,

in Hot Springs,

Arkansas.

De Leon, 

the discoverer

of Arkansas,

The Natural

State, that 

great home-

base of my

imagination,

the wondrous

Land of Oppor-

tunity.  And

also, as a side-

note, the home of

the “Chocktaw,

Chickasaw,

Cherokee,

Creek...and

sometimes

Sioux.”

mmcmxiv

Aftership

Take note
of the date
of birth (the
infant squeals).

This could
just be a 
case of 
queer love

at the cele-
brity divide,
he joked to
himself. Be-

ing himself,
he joked, a
lover, not a
fighter.  He

joked.  Put
the kibosh
(he did) on
hallucino-

genics be-
cause of
the scream-
ing angels.

Always,
the ang-
els, scr-
eaming!

At last, be-
ing once
a sheep,
the word

he felt was
reborn.  The
scorn I feel
is the waste

of time
it took
to get
here.