mmmxxxii

Bottled Water Sonnet

We’ve corporated the Bill of Rights. Our
lovely bottled waters overlook the misty
oceans. More important, though, are our
bevelled heads, eloquently sculpted, bent

into vigorous debates; we’ve delegates from 
the slipshod memories of pining pines, breezy
breezes and precious protections of liberty
strewn by the squirrels, eaten by the wood

peckers. We rise to meet our historical
challenge.  Every day our beds are perfumed
with a continuing series of constitutional
amendments. We ache in ways that give us

pleasure, America’s new blueprint for capital
impoverishment. Blue balls and sogged faces.

mmmxxxi

discommunicating misclosure

what i want to tell you, most beautiful

eyes in the world, is: i can’t speak.  i don’t

care which hemisphere you’re in but

that you’re alive, face to face, right here

in front of this muted nose.  please forgive

when i try to tell you everything.  sure,

there was this one pose - you seemed

at once alert and in repose - emblazoned

in my head for months or maybe years

before we spoke.  to call it speaking

is a reach, i suppose.  but still, each

word took off in your direction as if

newly coined, giddy with rebirth,

hope, desire and, soon, intent.

there’s just no way to tell you this.

but i will.  it’s not up for debate,

either, since i cannot speak.  since 

i forget the meaning of it.  but

you’ll take my hand, i know it.

weak with the stun of a blundered

proposal.  i propose we cling like this

forever.  i know who you are and

you know where i am.  this makes

for endless possibilities.  one of which

is me, peering out over the mountains.

we used to talk about needles in haystacks

over the minimalist night-music, which,

once inside the ear, went about the

business of pouring into my head, 

infecting me.  there was nothing but

feelings (and surely several other words)

as language began to rot away.  we planned

to meet, somewhere in the middle, it 

feels like you said?  is this still happening?

at first, just to touch you (can you feel

me?).  i am waiting it could be a long

time.  but i feel stupid and unsure 

without words.  without meaning.

you may remember me attempting

to explain how feeling stupid is like

being at home without a plan. is 

alone, pretty much.  will i still be

seeing you soon?  if i had a memory,

that would be the plan.  was always

the plan.  until i tried to speak that

one time, feeling such an idiot.  oh.

now i think i remember. unwell, flying

around the metropolis without one.  just

to feel your...sweater.  it’s so cold. oh!

i can see you now.  i think.  you’re 

just a block away.  i feel like i

know you, this melancholy that 

comes before a most happy

ending.  “don’t i?"  i

ask, your face in

both of my hands.

mmmxxx

The Con

once upon a time, i was a
con.  nobody seemed to

notice.  this

continued for some time.  the

economic impact was significant.

touching, isn’t it?  i had

chosen the profession of

oncologist, in truth. but, to 

coin a phrase, tumors

conked me out.  they

knocked me into the

the cotton with the

raccoons, a

conch at my ear like a

scone gripped with

conviction into an

uncouth cup of

conciliatory tea. i,

noncommittally

nocturnal, would later be

uncovered in a

condo in the city of

Stockton (I’d never been), and

pronounced dead

(coincidence?) next to an

untouched tuna

nicoise salad.

mmmxxix

The Dichotomy of Fear 

(excerpts from the prelude)

     I call it dipping their toe in the

     cold waters of fear.

                                  —Alfred Hitchcock

that which weaves us all together —

and so intricately, so delicately —

is fear.

lately, for me, agoraphobia.  

also, always, being on an

airplane.  yet the undeniable

joy of getting out and about.

of seeing the world.

what are

phobias but fears?  and

what is it that fear is, in-

evitably, so afraid of? well, 

death.  

what is death?  this gets a bit

difficult to assess.  but the fear

is consistent.

people afraid 

of touch, of proximity,

of physical intimacy (would

that this were a redundant

phrase).

people are so often afraid 

of even a little bit of death.  

one might add that a 

little death (which is

no small thing) 

can go a long way...

...think intense and concen-

trated release of tension.

think marriage; think

affair.  think syphilis;

etc.

it was a fabulous affair.

he concentrated for

so long that he blew

a gasket (a blood

vessel in the corner

of his eye).

fear of public speaking,

that old standard: the

purported “fear #1” ...

which i equate with

performance anxiety.

(yet, how embodying

a character that is

not one’s own can

often reduce so-called

“stage fright.”)

the titillation of 

duplicity.  the 

horrors of same.

i sometimes enjoy

something so deeply

(for example, a tv series

or a novel) that as the end

nears

i start reducing the speed

of my intake (realizing

how precious my time

is with it, reveling and 

relishing in (the relish-

ing of) it, all the while

getting slower and

slower ... and ...

slower ...

until

i simply refuse to 

finish it.  

ever.

it continues to exist,

is always as alive as 

ever.  or almost as 

much it was when my 

focus was laser beam

to the screen, to each

page.

how this is only one 

of the numerous ways

in which i deliberately

and successfully

avoid death.

mmmxxviii

Text Message No. 12

(superliminal)

mmmxxvii

Checkmate

You’ll never solve it that way!

You’ll go blind staring at it like that!

mmmxxvi

Message from a Virtual Nobody

      But it affects virtually

      nobody.  It’s an amazing

      thing.

                —Donald Trump

i am familiar

with messrs.

nobody and

virtual nobody

because i have

answered to 

both names,

feeling helpless,

an absolute sense

of despair.  it's 

worth a try, even

as a mere exper-

iment, to see what

happens when a

nobody votes; to

see what happens

when all of us

nobodies do.

mmmxxv

Text Message No. 6

(sorry i’m so skullheaded)

sorry

sorry that

i cannot be

but as hard as

rusted armour

that i can’t

be soft which

when i hold 

your hand

your hand

in mine

please

excuse

this box’s

hard edges

and the fact

that you are

being bomb

arded by so

many like

minded

boxes

i’m so

sorry to

be such a

terror it’s

got to be

rotten

i’m

sorry

like an

arrow

in love

with a

target 

- -

 it did not 

understand its 

purpose or its

sharpness or the

fact that it had just 

been sprung from the

bow of the aptest archer

and was it

ever elated

to see its

love so

fast

approaching

mmmxxiv

Text Message No. 11

(a pair of dueling pics 4 u)

 

mmmxxiii

Text Message No. 10

(I think, therefore I am.)

How does one plow through

anything a day or month...

...might bring when every-

thing’s so important.

That's right, when no-

thing is not extremely

important.  Life or

death; do or die.

It’s a scientifically

proven fact that

stress shortens life.

So.  More life?

Or more stress?

A rational person

 (Don’t look at me!) 

might very well argue

that the hedonists

had the right idea

all along.  We

had always

(already)

found nirvana.

With enough 

logic, anything

can be proven

(right or wrong).

So I’m the mad

scientist stuck

in his little box

of a laboratory

all day metic-

ulously proving

that nothing

is wrong;

that, in fact

everything is 

just awesome.

I may not

make much

headway on

all of the tough

problems that seem

to get tougher and

tougher as time

rolls along.  But

my research al-

ways comes to

the spirit-lifting

conclusion that 

stress does not

even exist,

and, to boot,

I do.  So,

what are you all

worried about?

I wonder, but only

just a little bit.

mmmxxii

Text Message No. 9

(Confined Space: a blueprint)

mmmxxi

The time is now.

History suggests 

that now is the 

time.  Now is 

where the me 

of the future 

will focus his 

gaze in order

to see me.

I’ll be using

instruments

with the latest

technology,

along with

all of the 

focus I can

muster, just 

to hone in to

me now.  In

order, that is,

to determine

how on- or

off-course

the future

me is.  This

will most hope-

fully arm him

(the future me) 

with whatever we

need to adjust

our course

accordingly.

Should I make

this place bright,

go find a spotlight

to stand underneath?

Should I make a big

mess so I’m easy

to find or slyly

hide my exact

coordinates

somewhere I

am sure that I

will find when

the time arrives;

that best moment

to come in which

now can most 

possibly become

impactful? But. 

Might I even offer

a clue at all as to

whether I'm going

the right way, or

whether, instead,

I have ventured 

wildly astray?

It just seems

to me that I 

could not even

possibly offer 

the tiniest clue

to the me of

the future as

to whether

either of us

is aiming in

any way at

the place we 

hoped to live

to see – and, if 

not – how might

poor pitiable me

of now hold the

key to finding

which way that

would be? What

help might I 

give so that

an even elder 

me might final-

ly arrive?  Why,

given the me of

now, should I

even think it

a chance 

there’d be a

future me? 

This is a bit

of a quandary,

and one that

appears as

urgent as it 

is hopeless. 

Time is of the

essence, they

say.  But given 

how far off course 

we’ve sure to have

drifted, thanks esp-

ecially to me, and 

the lousy timing 

of my recent

unexpected 

detours, will

it even matter

if I am found?

Will there even

be a me that 

repeats the

same exercise

that the me

of times past

and future (?)

have been so 

meticulous to 

repeat (but how

long this repeti-

tion), now that 

I have proven

wisdom and

maturity irrel-

evant when it

comes to the 

pie in the sky 

notion that

life is best

experienced

as a quest for

paradise?  That

age makes the

human?  That

the best years

in life are, stat-

istically speaking,

yet to come?  Or 

did I have it wrong 

all along?  Am I

following this

inherent / in-

determinate

map toward

an impossible

nirvana?  One

that I never

shall, in this

incarnation,

see?  For

what great

fete befits

this existence,

a journey or

a destination?

I suppose I’d

better quickly

make my mark 

as pronounced

as I can.  Because

on the whole, I’d rather

give us all a chance

to see.  Hello out

there!  I hope you

can find me!  Here 

I am.  Hey!  If

you’re out there 

can you please 

look at me!

mmmxx

Text Message No. 8

(a stunningly ignorant

look at where dreams

end and nightmares

begin)

How embarrassing

to be alive in the 

21st Century, when

the powermongers,

former playboys,

will only perform

for the dunder-

heads?  And what

heartache it is to

watch as these

aging puffballs

play stupid;

to witness

the speed

at which ev-

olution can be 

completely re-

wound and per-

haps  irrevocably 

[?!?] undone!

We scratch

our poor 

heads into

complacency

wondering how

we awoke from 

such long elysian

dreams only to

find ourselves ig-

nored, forbidden 

to make even a

walk-on appear-

ance in a show 

we mistakenly

believed was

earned and

was ours.

mmmxix

Text Message No. 7
(searching for life in a distant galaxy)

what good is talking if you don’t
want to talk. be more forthright.
with yourself.  be specific about
how alone you yearn to be.  i
can’t even write that without
a pang.  come on.  objectively:
who wants to be alone?  oh.  

right.  okay.  duh.  sorry.

which is better, losing faith 

in humanity, or believing 

nobody will ever get you? 

get what?  somebody. 

at least before you start 

making noises about the 

importance of engage-

ment, it might be smart

to start small.  earn a

few words.  build a

little box to put 

them all in.  take 

a few baby steps 

before you decide 

whether walking is 

even the way you 

want to go.  are you 

there?  if so, hit me back.

mmmxviii

Text Message No. 5

(Parallel Universes)

mmmxvii

Text Message No. 4

(Novelty Poetry)

mmmxvi

Text Message No. 3

(Some Important Questions About God And The Cinema)

mmmxv

Text Message No. 2

(It's incongruous.)

mmmxiv

Text Message No. 1

mmmxiii

The Freudian Slip


has potential

as a title in that

it might be followed

by a saucy story or

a couple of shots

of poignant

double entendre,

something that

gives the reader

a little slap which

is followed shortly

by a rather stinging

slap, or a feeling of

déjà vu that quickly

and hauntingly is re-

vealed to be a gaping

crack on the surface

of the very soul of

the reader, something

that might force her

to contort into a

the shape of the

caricature in

The Scream,

never able

to leave

that shape,

which

ever

after

emerges

regularly

from and

then quickly

disappears

back into the

shadows at the

edge of town, a

creepy reminder

of the ugliness that

can almost always

be found when we

dig too deeply.

And at the end of

this performance,

there might appear

an Oedipal character,

recognized by each

member of the aud-

ience as oneself,

who appears

on a muddy set

and is dark

as murk, but

for something

it has in its

tight grip;

something

spotlit by

strobelight,

that quickly

and arrhythmic-

ally gouges deep,

deep, deeper into

its body, its flesh,

its hull, until the

theater is flooded

with a throbbing

red fog.

It might

just as easily

serve as an

alert to whom-

ever might pass

to watch out

for clichés, which

might be buried

so deeply within

a big monster

of a cliché 

that it might

be a bit disturbing

when the actual

cliché farm is

arrived upon

at some un-

godly hour 

like 3 in the

morning or

just as dusk

shows up at the

butt end of a less

than memorable

weekend.  It is

a pretty ordinary

title that has about

an ocean-sized 

amount of po-

tential. From 

here, things 

can go upwards 

to pretty much

anywhere.  I

wonder where

you thought you

might be going 

(if you thought

you might be

going anywhere).

Or if you even

gave it a thought.

Was there any

trepidation?  I

wonder how you

feel about me now?

mmmxii

Girl with the Typewriter Dies

attempting to help her old friend

Nathan brand his new mail order

business.  Fruit, he says, to which

he replies lime, watermelon,

strawberry.  Socko! she

thinks, having always

loved him.  Red sun,

purple pickle, he says,

and he isn’t just waxing

poetic.  As the evening

progresses at each word he

enunciates, she lets out a

lollipop – just a tiny mumbled

vapor – and then in a sort of

backwards fashion, as if via

the tops of both sets of

knuckles at the ends of

her short, cartoon-like

arms, she tries

to plug her

mouth with

an imaginary

one.

mmmxi

The Jigsaw

That process of putting the puzzle of

you (that’s me) together in front of

the someone (whom we shall name I 

Wanna), at least as much as that control

 

is yours (that’s mine)….  It’s laughable

to me that I’m even an ounce of a mystery.

And I really know that I’m not (nor never

 

was) brooding.  But I can find myself (and

have on too often an occasion) jaw-dropped

amazed at how large and self-important parts

of me remain so unfiguroutable to the folks

 

I’d really love to get got by.  That’d be those

closest, especially those with whom I set out

(with sheer intentionality) to make .. the most

 

close!  I generally chalk this off to just one

of those things I’ve lived with ever since 

refusing to be read like a book.  And who really 

wants (to be) Ducky when Ren McCormack’s 

in town?!.  When it comes to such puzzles, I 

suppose it might be true that the secret to being

a you (or a me) might lie somewhere a whole

lot closer to the being than the showing.

This thought and ones of peering out

my bedroom window over and over

and over, age six through seventeen,

often accompany each other–another

unnecessary mystery, perhaps, but

what’s a big backyard tree if not a

puzzle of some sort?  A puzzle

with maybe just too many branches,

I am thinking. But still .. memories.

Having my eyes stretch almost all the

way through the slats of the blinds

when (and how often!) up pops

a little rainstorm that’s soon enough

spitting sticks (little branches of elm) 

all over the backyard (which is pretty big!).

But what’s even to be made of the concept 

of big when later that same week, say: your 

self-same eyes (through the very same slats) 

are all agog with MOVEMENT,

a hailstorm, to say the least.  Wherein –

according to the pelted alarms going off

all over town – almost surely must have

living somewhere within it (and at the very least)

a tornado (or two?).  Now that kid knows well

that the elm’s got sticks and that the elm’s got

well, a super extra long and thick arm of yet 

another elm tree .. halfway up itself – 

and that that long .. let’s-call-it-a-bough ..

drips a weathered rope from which, 

almost all the way down to a

small but familiar dirt patch (that's churning

up a loaf of mud on this occasion), has dangling

an old Uniroyal tractor tire.  Yes, that same tire

about which everyone who’s ever

actually visited has always asked “How exactly

did that get up there?”  (“Wull, I dunno .. Dad?”) ..

You’ve swung that tire for ages; almost all

yours.  And what happens when – no,

don’t look out there now! – just past

where the rope is tight-strung, somewhere

just about where the tree’s HEART (the 

WHOLE tree’s heart) must surely beat, 

or so you’ve always figured, just SNAPS!?

And then, with a little whirl of the Pinto’s

windshield wipers, say .. after who knows

what-all destruction takes place, mostly

just in the form of time passing,

here you are at the trunk of that great elm. 

It’s not really even sittable anymore.

It’s just sort of there, without anything else but

the mud and a few of the old beagle’s bones.

This is, needless to say, well after you’ve picked

which anti-hero you’ll still be trailing (more than

likely long after you’ve given up on the idea of

any hero at all, really).  Gone are the days filled

with thoughts about miracles performed by Dad. 

Gone are the days laden with weather-related fears,

or of being beholden to anything that might snap a

tree in two for any other reason but to create a product

(Like a piece of that puzzle?  That’s another thought

that doesn’t cross your mind, of course.)

Today, there’s just the mud, the blankish

canvas of the past, a bit of chicken that’s

been rubberized by a long-gone dog,

and a backyard that if given notice at all just ..

seems considerably smaller.  And if one were to

approach this figure of you, one might

almost hear a sort of constant tinkle-tink

emanating from somewhere just behind

the big round eyes of a guy that’s

just about out-maneuvered lanky

into something a bit more

stump-like.  And, yeah, 

that would be, in retrospect

an unrepentant me, more drool

than brood, with a head clean empty 

but for a percussive, metallic-arrythmic 

garble coming from a group of I Wanna’s 

all clinking and clanging and whining to be 

found and all figured out.