mmmlxxxvi

from Dream Diary

March 6

2 dreams:
   1. I was a truck driver, driving the truck through tons of hills.
   2. I had an awkward date with someone I went to elementary school with.

mmmlxxxv

from Dream Diary

March 21

The setting is the house where I grew up and the small pasture behind it. In this dream I am an “adult.”

Two big blond guys were in our pasture and “we” (I don’t know who else was with me, perhaps my brothers) were tasked with keeping them in the pasture, and not letting them escape. Sometimes this involved beating the men back from the fence with a long metallic pole (they were constantly trying to get thru the gate). Time passes, “we” are back in the house, and the blonds have managed to escape and have gotten into our house where they are trying to kill us. One of the guys slaps a videotape onto my back, which does nearly kill me. I stumble onto the front porch and notice Woody Allen, who has just departed the Dairy Diner (across the street) and is on his way to get into his car, which is parked on the street close to our driveway. So I stumble further out, onto the street, and desperately explain to Mr. Allen that someone is trying to kill me and my family. He laughs, apparently thinking I am telling a joke, and gets into his car and drives away.

mmmlxxxiv

from Dream Diary

March 20

on the beach: everyone was either wearing a blue bathing suit 

or a green bathing suit (I was wearing blue, I think).

mmmlxxxiii

from Dream Diary


March 23

Was with my family who was not my family and we were planning a vacation to some metropolitan area but instead the father decided that we should go to a park instead, where we floated around on some tires until we all decided it was not fun.  So then we decided to go ahead to the metropolitan place, which was not Chicago, but that’s where we wound up, eventually talking to a group of folks who all seemed familiar (it turns out that there were only two people I actually knew: a friend from elementary school and my dorm-mate from my freshman year in undergrad). Wherever we were in Chicago, we could see the lake, and we each kept trying to remember the name of it. There were all sorts of amphibious vehicles being driven around. Then I was in a grocery store where some guy was leaning on me, then he tried to explain why he was leaning on me, but I wasn’t interested. He had 5 o’clock shadow and a green sweater.

mmmlxxxii

from that
day for
word,

harpo

the jelly

man would

scream

bloody

murder

whenever

anyone

would o

pen up

a jar

of

creamy

peanut

butter

mmmlxxxi

brief, comp
licated and
tons of fun.

that’s me.
remember?
tonight, we’ll

concentrate
mostly on the
fun. kosh? i

finally
gave my
brother

the advice
he always
wanted

to hear: it’s
just plain
hot to make

nonsense
out of
sense.

in fact, it’s
the only
right thing

to do. to
desecrate
the sensible,

to wreak
havoc on
the calm.

there’s
entirely
too much

complac
ency out
there. we

can surely
agree on
that. am

i right? to
cast doubt
wherever

there’s cer
titude. to
make non

sense out
of sense,
if you will.

i know
the de
tails look

a bit sus
picious
on the

surface,
your
honor.

but
i ass
ure you

that once
you allow
me to

explain
the logic
behind

the move
ment from
each seem

ingly jaw
dropping
accusa

tion to
the next,
i swear you

will thence
forth deny
that you

were ever
even skept
ical. i am

the good
guy. i al
ways have

been. it’s
just in my
nature to

seek out
order in
order to

rustle up
a dust-storm.
but officer,

you are
a man of
the law,

are you not?
so i assume
you know

the basic
laws of
science.

let me
offer as an
example

the law of
entropy.
physics

class,
day
one:

every
thing’s
going

in the
general
direction of

chaos. of
deterioration.
structure in

evitably be
comes de
struction.

there’s
just no
denying it.

so. might i
please just
know what

i could
have poss
ibly done

wrong here?
this is what i
do: i help

nature
take its
course.

it’s in my
nature to
help nature

take its
course.
naturally.

and just
between
you and me,

how could i
not? i mean,
who doesn’t

like nature?
am i right?
i mean, we

all know i
am. how
could i not be?

now. it’s
been a pleas
ure. and i trust

i didn’t muss
such a gorgeous
sunday. i mean,

just look at it.
how could i
possibly...?

mmmlxxx

getting into character

i used to watch

mission impossible

when it was on

television, still

running new

episodes.  i 

watched it

mostly for

mister spock.

at six or seven,

i was already a

trekkie.  and it

was a very odd

sort of thrill to

watch him play

a human.  as

for the show

itself, i don't

remember 

much of any-

thing else

about it.  i

could never

muster what-

ever it took to

understand the

plot-line of any 

episode.  it

was too con-

voluted for me

at the time.  it

was always so

quiet.  as if 

nothing ever 

happened.

and as if to

make it even

more sleepy,

there was 

the awesome

opening sequence,

filled with the 

adrenaline-

inducing 

theme song, 

which,  com-

bined with the 

long, lit hissing 

fuse that was

on-screen, 

made me giddy

with urgency

and suspense.

i would be

on my feet, 

right in front

of the tv set,

dancing in

five/four

time until

the song

was over.

and then,

after the 

first set 

of com-

mercials,

that sizzle

fizzled, and

i could never

catch hold of

anything that 

was happening,

thanks to a plot

that would seem

to crawl at a 

snail's pace

and which

would be

filled with

numerous

long periods

of just plain

silence. and so

it then became,

for me, a

show about

trying to watch

it long enough

to catch leonard

nimoy’s round-

eared human

character.

and when

i did last that 

long, i would 

always find

myself a bit

let down.  on

this totally

different show

(which was de-

cidedly not a star

trek alternate

universe), this

character made

me skeptical

toward spock.

it defied my 

tiny-headed

logic.  how 

could he, 

after all,

betray

the crew

of the ent-

erprise by

being on

this sum-

marily mun- 

dane show?

how could

he betray

vulcan by

totally de-

nouncing

that half

of his heri-

tage? for

a human 

that was

so cruelly 

boring? 

except for

his laugh,

which would 

erupt suddenly, 

with some reg-

ularity, and which

would give me

such a case of

the heebiejeebies.

it was so freaky

that it was difficult

for me to watch,

and yet, from

which it was

even more 

impossible

to look away. 

but,

to this

day, when-

ever i hear 

the theme 

song?

it gets 

me there,

fast and 

focused.

mmmlxxix

pretend it’s a
monocle, he
says. a kal-
eidoscope.
the hubble!

it’s a something
you’ve always
wanted to
learn but
have been

too afraid
to try night—
something
we do once
in a blue

moon. so i
am not keen
to burst his
bubble.
however,

i do quite
know what
i am doing.
in fact, it’s
all i have

done for
my entire
life. or as
far back as i
can remember.

i have just
never done
it quite so
officially,
and i am

a bit dizzy
with ad-
renaline.
i’ve cert-
ainly never

held one so
big before,
and have
never been
quite so del-

iberate about
the business
of it. he
thought it
would be

fun, and i
concur.
as for which
position i
prefer?

i am equally
as fine with
being in front
of the lens
as i am with

being behind
it. if i have
any rule,
then i
suppose

it would be
whichever is
the quickest
in a pinch.
one way

or another
i am always
on. unless,
of course,
i am liter-

ally at the
cinema. or
in front of
the box at
home (or

there-
abouts).
when so
situated,
i’m neither

focus nor gaze.
instead, i calmly
and reverently
allow my-
self to be

transported.
he doesn’t
know this yet,
but it is in
one of these

three realms
that he can
always find
me. which,
poor dear,

makes me
very much
unavailable.
but tonight
he’ll take one

end and i’ll
take the other.
and then, for
at least a
couple of

hours or so,
he’ll see,
as i do,
what it is
to be rid

of this
unwieldy
world a-
round us.
we may,

in fact, run
into each
other, swept
away, as it
were, within

the folds of
some chorus
of human
collaboration.
or whatever.

would that
i were al-
ways so
ostenta-
tious. but,

to imagine
oneself
such a
fancy
god....

it may not
be an
eternal
escape—
just yet,

anyway—
but to-
night
it is—
at

least—
a small,
but ne-
cessary
diversion.

mmmlxxviii

Space Bat

Holy Batwings, Murder Girl, have I got a story for you!
It’s twelve twelve and there goes a shooting star over
Mount Dragonsnort. The summer milk in each dim bulb
navies an otherwise sinister river, our iconic Creek Full of
Broken Numbers. Odd men are out; they smatter the
shore with balding languor. Suddenly, up in the sky,
it’s Kaiju. He’s breathing a word-message: “Death not
to the language making dizzy the angst-ridden mudders!”
What it means to the clock on the landscape doesn’t stop
the story from dancing. Zero grows feral, fills himself up
on red pills and [daisies]. No matter the prattle, this dance
allies with a gangly plot, pilfers all the loopy newsreels,
parades through the city like a snake-plant atop a garbage-
heap of iPods and cellphones. Nobody knows how to open.

mmmlxxvii

Space Bat Tree

Pain stops neither at the noon shine nor at the disparate
Italian breakdowns. Graffiti pocks the nether-reaches
of Ninja Kitty City; nightgowns on putative dog-lovers
skirl around dear Martini-Man. He was only here to snap
at Zero, so why the long face of a red bat draped over
Owl Bird’s lone ornament? The true story plummets like a
Valentine over your sour face (erstwhile lying in the gutter
like freewheeling fiction). Evidence of each broken pigeon
mounts like hail-dents on taxibots. Is it a forced evasion?
This, only a mere flicker of the plot, and still no leads on
Murder Girl. Falling into yet another true story I am only
[jerking]. Our express bus has yet to arrive and these words
collapse yet atop the garish clouds onto the sullen harpies
because they are not super-intellectual. Ninja! Kitty! City!

mmmlxxvi

climate change

30 years
of leaving
arkansas.
that humid
heat. for
a cooler
life through
ohio, boston
and then
here in
idyllic san
francisco,
where i’ve
lived now
for two
decades.

mmmlxxv

fight or flight

in secret code
the two beans
like peas in
one pod bleat

whispers don’t
work when you
’re in separate
hemispheres

mmmlxxiv

Where do we go from here?

The problem here—
the catch; or to
overuse a cliche,
the irony that I’ve
just unwittingly
set up—lies in
the plurality of
the word we.
Meaning (ob-
viously), in this
particular case,
many (mini-)
mes. Or, more
likely, Me (n):
despite his del-
usional and ov-
erarching life-
long ass-
piration of
being a wit
(...of some
renown), has
been here-
tofore per-
ceived in-
variably (if
at all) as
quite a
twit....

(frown)
....Never-
theless, he
does most
often enjoy
being per-
ceived (if at
all. And) as del-
usion (which,
guffaw,
if all goes
well—fingers
crossed—will
be what gets
him up out of
bed and on
his merry way
to wherever
it is that he—
or we—shall be
at this time
tomorrow).

mmmlxxiii

Shadow Confrontation

Many a mother mutters lullabies après plastic surgery.
Tight-lit glowworms gnaw at Kaiju and Kaiju rankles, 
glowers into enemy frowns—Evil Ferocious!—Monster!
Zero, he lures moms through Chinatown’s wet barking
buskers. Something’s clearly in the air, yet he reddens
like Italian sausages. (Look which language this pigeon
chooses.) He screws me through a sky and space writ
large above the perky crickets. He sees twentieth century
masterpiece “Half Full of Stitches, Onward”—crafts its
democratic buzz to stay the horndogs of inevitability.
Each red dragon chews them up, gives us all a rubber
complex-bot, chucks the green-bruised birds into the
burnt-out sky. How varied our dim bulbs’ white lies
echo—each frilly fib halves our [dorkening] blade!

mmmlxxii

Shadow City

The spotlights dim as clunky towers crap out in Ninja
Kitty City. Glowworms growl and scurvied legs plot
rhythm in each broken alley, never quite a cakewalk.
Chinatown’s headachy with blottoed pigeons. I can’t
sleep beneath the rainless starts and stops, am driven
to torturing portraits. Life’s dim bulbs burn orange,
burn red at the vile bay’s cumbersome berths. Eyes
to see with, Zero looks forward, spells trouble, glowers
for apocalypse. I have a pain down my shoulder, right
behind my [heart]. Make it somebody else’s ocean;
wring its grease-rags of each city-borne sneeze. Dumb
stars debunk death, bite attack rockets mounting escape.
There are none. Life is never less than apple. Blink again
Kaiju, blink until we each glow red with death’s bracken.

mmmlxxi

Rocket Beach

Many a muttererer makes Martini-Man blink, his bleary eyes
heavy as twice-pickled onions. Look, there he goes now along
Rocket Beach, all taken with humanity. The blue blue couches
are snoozing by the watered windowpanes as Zero neatly prances
through Chinatown’s wet drooling hoses. Zero drools too. And
by all measure of predictability at most things blond and burnt.
Nobody’s built a rocket since Mount Dragonsnort erupted. And
nobody’s broken a code since the dragons built their bulky berths
on the bay’s barren shores. Winter’s a humdinger this year. Many
a true tale gets lost on Ninja Kitty City, each one languoring for
the lie-squeezing bubs. We watch [death] bury each bitten plot
beneath the gamboling sun whilst rancid dog-lovers yarl at the
piggy pigeons caught in an interminable autumn longueur. Such
mini-mutterings make Martini-Man blink his eggy eyes again.

mmmlxx

Pussycat

How cliche the rhythms of the bony snowmen. Each
pelvic thrust another cheap revolution, each coal-lipped
mouth brimming with little white lies. Zero is in the
bathroom putting on his [airs]. Summer’s come and gone
with its leather pills and its blue shoelaces. Day dorkens.
My final decision, as always, is to milk the fiction. This
inspires the navies and the tweeds, perks up the bottled
waters in offices everywhere, each suite replete with
blighted dog-lovers and deviled pigeon-feet. We work
our whispers fiendishly, nursing the plotbots with our
bitter yarls. Zero has finished his airs. Now we walk our
dim bulbs. Now we attack our earnest portraits. Now we
ignite Ninja Kitty City with our errant apples, our eager
headaches, our bloated verbs and our groused iPods.

mmmlxix

Ninja Kitty Neon

Back to square one. No way to see which language
stinks of rotten headaches. The soaked pigeons of
Italy have flown their coops, recouped rosy Mount
Dragonsnort. Everyone lies in true stories. Always
curious, Ninja Kitty knows nothing of details, examines
each symbol like a rubber apple. Death to the plotbots!
Life is never less than normal. Each valiant player has
her own set of rules. E.g., Zero equals one. All of the
squares know that. With Kaiju and Zero in cahoots,
pills flow freely. We milk the summer for each dim
bulb, every cheap bruise. Look at the water—back to
Zero! No way to swim into it, not the soaked silence
it used to be, going nowhere. Scratch hard our velour
[rabbits] – in another language this wouldn’t be okay.

mmmlxviii

Ninja Kitty House

By now it must be clear that I am in love with Zero.
Because I never publish political poetry. Because
I sit in the very same seat every reading and leave
without talking to anyone. Because I don’t write
political poetry. Because I am fashionable. Because
I am opposed to plastic surgery. Because I’m a
poser. Because I’m terribly shy. Because I detach my
self from one scene as I hurriedly paste myself onto
another. Which poets are really stand-up comics?
Sorry, old question. Never, ever write anything
during a poetry reading. Because I am not super-
intellectual. Under the influence of any other
[writer] (always this), there is no myself. Here’s
a little something to shake up the current program.

mmmlxvii

Ninja Kitty Haunted House

Here’s another true story: It’s eleven eleven and I am
watching the pretty-color sky. There goes my shooting star.
Zero sees it first. Mine hits the ground somewhere near
Mount Dragonsnort. More giddy, we keep walking. No
where is the whistle of the train, nor the whimper of its
many sell-outs. Nowhere Kaiju. Watch what happens. The
disparate fictions of mini-languages. And we are desperate.
Zero keeps running into the rotten headaches with great
measure of predictability. Our [legs] go around the plot as
we find our dim bulbs, punch out every growth spurt. Re
lying on our evolution, we carry ourselves through a dumb
limbo for many bruised years. Only kidding is the yarn star
who knocked himself into that greedy mountain. Our allies,
the London Squabs, call all the blue taxibots for reinforcement.

mmmlxvi

Ninja Kitty City

Many matters bubble beneath Bubble Girl and her mini-
meanings. For once we make speak, talking the talk of
the speak that cannot speak its name—names like Ninja
Kitty. See Kitty’s city, we all belong here, yet who a
mong us crawls its spaces yet like rats, bemused by all
its snaking plants, its hard snowmen, and its violent iPods?
Serious answers lie beneath each twentieth century master
piece. Take Mister Fiction, for example. He cannot
find Zero for the life of him, yet his algorithms are no
finer than Anysoul’s algorithms. What makes one rhythm
worthy over another? Let us escape portraiture! These
are the pithy words of dance, commingling among the
in- and out-boxes of yesteryear. Let us forthwith to Now,
our fat [berths] mingling gleefully among its many mini-spurts.

mmmxlv (2)

Monkeybot Rampage

Welcome to the word-colonies. Can’t we move beyond this
brazen earthquake I wanted to ride toward a more romantic
sonnet full of good advice and complex rubber plotbots? Death
trusts no one, especially Murder Girl, who doesn’t even know
noir when she sees it. Then I snoozed bluely on the couch
and listened to the mist hit the windowpane. [Zero.] Zero is
at the lab and I just ordered take-out, which is usually about
$10. The squirrelbots are coming unhinged. They screw me
over to the creek full of broken numbers until—I AM LOST.
No unencumbered clodhopper could stomach such brazen limbo.
I meant the glory of these clouds, this essay on clouds, the glory of
holding forth under the soullessness, our overlapping guests, un
hinged mallrats with red gills. I have Friday look at my request. 

If you ask to be a member, you cannot be a member. Help me, Zero!

mmmxliv (2)

Kaiju Swipe

I think I’ll just [read] a poem. It’ll tell my story and
make me feel good. The poundings of that thing that
is pounding in the lot next to the lot where I work
are as loud as Kaiju, who swipes all of the buses in
the terminal. I’m too noisy to look up at the clouds.
No more birthdays in progress. Nor merely the coolest
blue, suggestive of the bruises of inevitability. Para
normal? Non. We divert all gut-punches into the sense-
driven swift of the mainstream. Blunt verbs utter little
burnt peeps into the shadows—but they don’t keep the
bricks from imploding. Go, Kaiju, go! Four pills and
several desperate languages later, Zero arrives with
Martini-Man. Martini-Man arrives with a fruit-bat, a
burnt bulb and a snowman. All is well in the city.

mmmxliii (2)

Kaiju Breakthrough

I am watching the pretty-color sky and the dragon
hatches out of it, a new century masterpiece. It is a
diagonal dragon and it arrives truly with a red sell-out
scheme of featherpills for whom I am uncertain. But
it knows Zero and lands on this nearby mountain to
burn more snowmen who snout for him. I don’t like
Mount Dragonsnort but a quick vacation is a nice idea.
Martini-Man gives me a bright red camera to hold onto
in verity. Verity, verity, I say unto you, this new birth
to the sky is no less than gospel and is the great new
language until none other is pinkish and low-spoken.
Go dragon! I say [nothing] here. Us new babies are
less diagonal, though, and is a little tired from sending
FedExes all day long. We bury our big green bruises.

mmmlxii

Fish Cat

I hereby acknowledge that I have outlined my ex
pected responsibilities, per Zero’s Italian masseuse.
I’ll be responsible for seeking guidance from the
local news on my walk to the burger joint in the
afternoon. How so fruitful this foray, evasions not
withstanding. My final decision endures the sheer
transparency of this desperate language. I blow my
blue rose into a punch bowl, Zero’s favorite red one,
reboot, and bitterly escape narrative, by an inch or a
milliliter, depending on London. I’ll ask how much
lunch is on boiled snakes and high-squeezing snobs.
Sounds better non-plural. Promise me we’ll be green
in December. The lint on my [apples] is a Cheshire
smile, but its yellow bow-tie won’t snap us out of it.

mmmlxi

Drum Bird

Dumb little bird done gone and made its way to
May Day. Dumb little blue bird of the infested
elephants. Didn’t know which rhythm to function, 
which mega-fiction to fathom. It’s a cheap thrill
to keep Zero from living-breathing. Snake-plant’s
found a way to make him seethe and bruise, but
that only stretches the elements as they rattle Italy.
I’ve got stars on my PJs and I do know the headcode:
seven sonatas in five-four tempo. So blow me. Thai
food’s gonna arrive and dumb bird’s got dim bulb.
I wanna wake [me]. This ain’t my bow-tied take-
out but a stanza worth repetition. Rhythm func
tion. Cheap bruise.  Fun pill to reboot my horn-flute.
This dim plot just blew a break! Bam! Pow! Bing! Bopp!

mmmlx

Deathbot

I know how to get to Zero. Make it somebody else’s
ocean caught my eye before the boot-faced elephant. Ping
the cop-car drafting a naked young gentleman from Italy,
all blond and burnt. It’s nothing but an inaccessible rev
olution down here, no way to see which language this
work is growing, which narrow agents laugh their way
through Chinatown’s wet bruised burdens. Know the statute,
Zero. It’s your own honest dog-lover of buzzes, not mine.
Find your inner portraiture, escape all the snappy punches
that bring you down to nobody; no greater thrill than wrap
ping one’s leg around a soiled and greedy plot, this [head]ache
of a masterpiece finds us minding our own peaches. I’m a
shamed of this direction. Wrestle me with the twentieth
century fiction, Mister Fiction. Find my bulb, Bubble Girl.

mmmlix

Crop Shadow

I am dumb fucking dumb fucking dumb for Zero. In
me is another me that can yet see this nothing story 

develop. U equals the Italian postcard that I shall
never C. That is only a small crumb of this dumb
limbo that I write for the dogs. The unflattering
crop circles proceed to digest the inevitable pill
kisses of summer. Red roses red roses let Moses
come hither. I am dumb fucking dumb and this dis
ruptive intimacy is, by all measure of predictability, 
a wash, a big green turtle wash. Like you said of the
elements, of the brew brew elephants, it is another un
volve of me another flaw like the birds another warmum
for supper. And it tastes like [apple]. Find me another rend 

ering to begin with. Boy, this one stinks of rotten headaches.

mmmlviii

BBQ Time

This is just the sort of evolutionary honesty I have come
to expect, moreover to desire, from Zero and his verse.
We wend our way alongside the pasture’s creekbank,
looking for the amateur narrator. Cattle low intimately.
This pit is full of lava and the snowmen have their own
allure. I raise my spatula to the bruised pigeons of Italy.
They have their pills. They do not but seek revenge for
the snapshots, only for all cameras everywhere. The old
bulbs wanted more than just another dud story, another
sell-out scheme of escaped narrative. I’ve seen several
movies interjected into various beds, each electric in its
dog-loving warmth. Lift your [voice]! I lift mine. Zero
will be home at nine by all measure of predictability. Life is
not but broken. We have yet to see the bony snowmen burn.

mmmlvii

Bar Time

Zero is at the laboratory and I’m sitting here with the salt
and pepper shakers trying to figure out his bowl of fruit.
All the mail is sorted into its various bins. One haiku
and a bookshelf of the movie that somebody loves with a
handlebar moustache is wilting on the stovetop next to the
pink flyswatter. Hanging under the snake-plant is a cigar-
box lid and its trolleycar cruising the dog-loving couples.  He
feels the red pills drying inside of his gut. Who’s given him
the police car from Italy, lately? If it were indeed Martini-Man,
suffice it to say the feeling would be a-okay. But intimacy isn’t
something you simply tangle into your shoelaces like burrs. 
It’s big-named [moviestars] who are in line with this red-carpet
feeling of getting there before the other hungry elephants.
We must yet beat that dim spotlight onto the last of the apples.