mmmccxxi

if, upon returning to your bottle. . .

once you return to your bottle,
make a note of the duration of time
it has been since you were here before.

has it been a jiffy? have there been
lots of spaces of unaccounted for time since
last you saw your bottle? has it perhaps been

only a few minutes or an hour or an afternoon?
did you leave the bottle in a cool and dry place,
like for example in a refrigerator, with the lid screwed

tightly on? did you screw said lid in the very least,
perhaps even askance it might provide some
protection for your fine beverage

from the elements, whatever those
elements might be. and if you come in
toward your bottle, say almost touching your nose

upon the hopefully chilly surface of it, all of these
things depending, and if your nose is not at all pleased
with the chill, it being highly inappropriate with regard

to what befits a beverage such as that which is left of your
own, within the confines of the purportedly, or at least
hopefully, chilly bottle, which you

do or do not press neatly into your face for just the
perfect few seconds of time before you relax your thumb
and fingers upon the cap in order to set about

unscrewing that which keeps it within (you did say
you screwed the lid back on tightly, did you not?),
well,

and when the lid is gone and you’ve depressed the
open end of your fair bottle upon your tongue,
awaiting what can and surely shall be

the perfection of the submission and then the suck
and the swish and then the swallow of
what remains quite an attractive

bit of liquid –
but if, perchance, i might add here, that is,
if what lands upon the tongue

in no ways resembles the memory
of, or the expectation of, based upon the
memory of, all that the beverage could be,

given the dregs of what now is but a dainty
trail left down the middle of the tongue pretty much
right up to the the sluices of the bottom of the throat and the

entryway into the stomach –
well if you don’t feel the fizz you
expected with certainty, then

don’t get pissy with the beverage,
and most certainly not with me,
for the victim and the culprit are gonna be

one in the same, mister! so not a click, nor a tut-tut,
and you might as well just look the other way,
because you can be well assured that the rest of

mine was just as deliciously fizzy when I screwed off 
the cap as it was when only 15 minutes ago I
slurped up the remainder,

and with such great delight! oh, and I might as well
take advantage of a moment such as this
to bid you a cool and refreshing good night.

mmmccxx

Allure

I was 14.
The hair
has just
grown
so much.
It does
not smell
great. The
cab smells
(in fact) like
sanitized leather.
While I generally
refrain from wear-
ing a fragrance, my 

wife says that I smell

manly. As soon as
the ballet ends the
smell begins. Night
falls in Paris.

mmmccxix

A Few of My Current Greatest Fears

the fear that I might
collapse into brevity

the fear that I may
never cook this
wheat spaghetti

the fear that any
of several things
that at present are
noted as “pending”
might remain so
indefinitely

the fear of cockroaches,
of scorpions,
of bumblebees
and lizards

the fear, not so much of
an earthquake itself, but of
what one, should it come,
might leave in its wake

speaking of which, the fear of
dying in my sleep (much as I
do hope that’s the way that I
inevitably go)

the fear that arises, when one
needs to be identified (such
moments these days which
occur, it seems to me, with
increasing frequency), of
having irrevocably misplaced
my driver’s license (ditto the
most previous parenthetical)

the fear of losing my wallet,
my catalog of electronic files (my
photographs, my poetry, my
correspondence), of losing
my wit; my memory,
my marbles

the fear that friends and
acquaintances may see
neurosis as one of my
primary characteristics

the fear that I may never again
have the pleasure of the proximity
of friends or even well-established
acquaintance

the fear of being
unable to communicate

the fear that I may
never again travel abroad

the fear of the
comfort of
confinement

the fear of
over-indulgence

mmmccxviii

Sunken Anchor

if personhood is shaped by persons
we don’t do a solid job of it
            —Sophia Dahlin

I saw the news.
Today I heard
the news a little.
Today a little
news, sewn
into my lapel;
I heard a news
report while
wearing shorts.
What news?
Aha! A news
bulletin! The
news, a bullet
in. I saw some
news. The news
had holes. A
hole in one?
So, the news?
One internation-
al bit about the
breeze. The
Seven Seas.
A short retort.
Newsflash:
Hot flashes!
Rest assured,
no news is
good. Gnu
news is not
but just a blip.
And what a clip
if presses hit
(depress) the
snoozes. Dis
guy says the
noose a neck-
lace, espies
canoes is. A
nutter year.
He fears she
hear ye pen
knee dare.

mmmccxvii

Magnesium

I don’t want to write
a real sentence.  Not
about this.  Let us be-
gin with a primary ten-

et of inspired writing (a 

silly phrase that hovers
in the vicinity of creative
penmanship).  My father,

as it turns out, would
be, with such hokey
rules, a creative writer.
Which is absolute per-

fection!  So let it be!
But I, of course, didn’t
finish what I was say-
ing before getting side-

tracked (a character-
istic that, under any
other umbrella, would
best be labeled: flaw).

(How fun to be so
unintentionally did-
actic; it’s just such a
slip-shod profession

that were one also
criminal, one could
surely, within the
purview of one’s

work, excuse a
a murder.)  With
a minimum of
contrition I must

ask (forgive the
repetition of this
fair question),
What was I

getting at?  Ah,
now I remember.
You may now each
and all throw out

whatever rules to
ward which you’ve
heretofore striven.
The path toward

perfection lies
only after such
dispensation.
What I mean

to say (and I do to
you now) is that any-
thing you call a sen-
tence is a sentence.

One step further:
anything you might
call a poem, is with
certitude, and by

your so calling, a
poem.  If I say I
am a poet, I am a
poet.  Repeat after

me: It is such a del-
ight to write.  Again.
And with at least a
tad more imagination!

mmmccxvi

Cesium Song

geometric
trigonometric
isolation

the doggone
throngs are
gone the

throngs the
ones that gave
me a headache

all of whom I
wished away on
that long bygone day

I wished them
away and now
they are now

they are throngs
I was wrong
I wish you would

stay tomorrow
times tomorrow
times tomorrow

oh throng
why in the world
did you leave me

alone my
memory’s
gone

I forgot all
the things
I could possibly

say isometric
geographic
naught on display

oh throngs
I was wrong
won’t you

come
back
today

mmmccxv

A Paeon to You for
     Loving A Peon Like Me

The emptiness of
elevated language
may well swell and
lull in such a fashion
that it’s pretty song
when entering most
ears. I can at least
affirm that with regard
to what enters my own
and very head that a
flourish here and there
can flatter even the high-
est plainspoken praise and
give me cause for quite a
rise. But that, I have to say
is not at all the case with you.
What isn’t straight as forward
on the line that could be drawn
as arrow from my mouth to you
goes in one ear (if that) and out
the other.  Even the slightest of
embellishment somehow makes
its way through some sort of
invisible harvester to be shred
or shucked away before, it seems,
such decoration even leaves a well-
intended mouth; a modifier, however
long or fancy-looking on the page is
only just as good as the malleability
of the spare and solitary word that it
was meant to modify. “In point of
fact,” I’ll hear you say, “much more
often than it is not, a word is meant
and with singularity - its sole entire
purpose is - to represent that of
which it means, and stubbornly.
It cannot just decide it wants to
be transformed nor beautified
no matter that it might show up
in company of another word or phrase
that from whomever well-intentioned
deliverer might have sent so as to
whip or mold it into any other shape.”
These so-called signifiers are but to
you completely insignificant, no matter
how elaborate, regardless of how many
syllables or how they might with such
dramatics trip sensationally off the tongue.
It is clear as clear can be that you believe
that to exhalate even one such hopeful
lexicographical aesthetician is time spent
irreversibly and irrevocably wasted. “Most
words, it’s true, are stubbornly stuck and
with being what and only what they are,
and that is where linguistic beauty lies; it’s
all the beauty words will ever need, if you
ask me,” I’ve often heard you say. This
does go on, and often, to this day. And
while you voice so confidently on about
how there’s never any need to doctor
elocution up, declaring what a most
impressive thing it is, indeed, to utter
with simplicity and never emit even a
single word that isn’t wholly necessary,
“Just tell it like it is. And on such matters
how, my dear, could anyone but concur?”
I smile as if to convey my absolute agree-
ment with his logic. But I’m barely there.
Because I’ve never seen a set of eyes upon
a so fine a face, and never held a hand
belonged to anything sweeter. And all
the while in awe of all of that, I wonder
how on earth I might begin to put into
any words at all (not to mention simpler
ones) the host of giddy transformations
that occur each time that line that’s formed
between us gets of any distance shorter. Or
how, more inexplicable still, those pleasant
feelings grow, exponentially, and into such
a word-defying roil, how inundated my entirety
is met with such a palpable euphoria. But this
I keep and to myself in greatest hopes to not
dissuade you of your presence. I’ve no mind
at all but to never speak without any super-
fluity and without an iota of abundance, to
the invaluable end of here with you remaining.

mmmccxiv

How Not to Touch

Fold your eyes
up into your head.
When they convulse,
contorted so, utilize
this, a means of un-
control, the same
awkward mech-
anism often used
to fly through
rafters with a
broom, the
apparitions,
those souls
so sickened
by ethereality,
the stubbornest
fools among the unliving,
who’ll spend a decade
swimming in long-dead
oak developing just the
frequency that gets a
floorboard to creak.
But you, unseen
observer of the
dead and the
undead, you
go about
mapping out
their movements,
every twist and turn,
the x, the y, the z,
the length of time,
and to the dot,
where one might
hover, fluttering
in place, like an
immortal heli-
copter, at just
the spot in space
(exactly) for the very
time it takes (just as
concisely) to manage,
just as your victim has
risen from bed, wrapped
herself among her linens,
glides across the floor, and
just as she’s about to
unlock the door
she’s buckled over,
burst into a momentary
gloom so intense the room’s
begun to spin, the dusty candelabra
shakes each stick of wax into a blur,
and then, back up and into exhalation
all is lost and well-forgotten once again,
her clammy hand has twisted up the
sterling knob until the door, awash
in morning’s purple light is open
and in a whoosh the ghastly
trick of decades of anguish
is out the door and
past a human’s
point of reference;
as is she, the
day is her
and always
was, and
you are
back to work
upon a better plan
to guide the living
ever quicker to
the end, no
matter that
in doing so
the two
of you’d
never
once
get so
intimate
as this, to
never
occupy a
kindred space,
in absolution
not to ever
even co-exist.

mmmccxiii

The Studs’ Defeat: A Still Life
(or The Seven Duds from Silver City: A Parable)

“Would you please kindly
excuse me for just a

moment?  I need to pull
a cashew out of my shorts.”

He had always called all of the
shots.  And so each pair of eyes

went zipping all about the
room at what appeared to be

an erratic, irrational and
seemingly impossible speed

before a full and unwavering
stop to perform a short-term

sort of a half glare square on
in the direction of Dozier, as he

went about taking every second
of the time it might likely take an

elegant, seven-foot-tall octogen-
arian who casts a shadow identical

to the shape of the silhouette of
a slender-as-an-overripe shoot of

bamboo would no doubt take to rise
and to then begin to amble, from any

table, be it dining or office or, as was
the case here this morning, a game of

cards, and in the general direction of an
exit, right after he’d just resoundingly

beaten (in truth, it was a full-on rout)
the most sly and most sinister set of

treacherous villains ever to be ass-
embled into a conglomeration for a

maximum-stakes, all-night game
of poker.  Once Doze had ever-so-

slowly slipped past Herb and Rat-
cliffe (each stood so that Doze

fit neatly between their knees and
and shins and the card table as he

idled sideways through, and once
free, limped at a pace that seemed

to run through eternity down the
short hall to the back exit, the

screen door of which was just out of
sight from the men that were gathered.

There was not a move made all the
while, that is until after the door, which

had let out a slow scrawling squeak
as it apparently opened, had at first

gone silent for a few long seconds,
and then, with a snare-sounding

rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat in reverse,
slammed shut, when all of the men

let out a long, collective and slightly
voiced and even melodic exhalation.

Each head, after that, relaxed to a
bend that could be described

as bobble-forward – or in half-
prayer, but with all of their arms

a-dangle, gone limp and just
hanging, each man’s left and

right arms intersected each's
respective thigh; and also, with

what from above appeared as
with stunning precision, each arm

made, in combination with thigh,
a perfect ninety degree angle), who,

like the rest, were still seated in
what appeared to be a pigskin

fight’s huddle at the table holding
aloft all of the elbows (as well as,

in two cases, the faces) and a
discordant, messy scatter of cards

(there were clubs, there were spades,
there were diamonds and hearts;

there were kings, there were queens,
there were jacks, there were aces.

And alone on the in front of the space
just exited there was, facing upwards

as if look at each of the poor men, if
not in their eyes then at least at their

faces) a messy scatter of cards, the
leftover runes from the last hand of

the long game, as if only to remind
each worthless man that remained

in that dank basement of their defeat
in a horribly unfortunate game just

ended – one that had begun at dusk
the night previous all the way to

and then well past morning’s first
light which by now had begun to seep

directly downward, into the tepid
basement, and onto those motley parts

of the sweaty and oil-spotted skin
that one could see, that were

exposed to the elements; the
parcels of skin on the backs of

the necks of despondent men
who’d each been so duly defeated

glowed, and if one were to look down
at the view from just above the table

the ring of necks might easily be
imagined a beautiful, radiating crown

of thorns or, just perhaps if one’s power
of sway or depth of imagination were

more than unusually convincing,
might be that of a sun-yellow

highlighted halo, belonging assuredly
to some unknown creature or another

that might live in the ground at a
level however deep but directly

below the once ballyhooed but now
neatly bedeviled circle of men who’d

only just all been put in their rightly
low-downed, respective places by

a man in obvious and stark contrast,
lauded within these humble lines,

the intent of which is of course to
assist in setting the mood for what

is hoped to be a long celebration,
of high-minded, goodly, Silver City

denizen, our dear fellow Dozier. But
also to serve to remind us all that

good does indeed inevitably win in the
end, and that we must always at least

believe. It is toward this ideal that with
steady composure lead men like Dozier

to ardently fell or reform earth’s bad
inhabitants, those who are rotten, nasty,

revolting, so that those whose hearts,
whose souls and whose minds are, in

all generality, good, may swiftly or may,
at the very least eventually clobber

those who are not. In summary, we
might also put in this way: may we

as the good and most honorable people
be always goodheartedly triumphant,

and in being so, may we leave enough
room here on this fine earth, not only to

bury the onslaught of rotten we clobber,
but also ensure that what’s left, what

goodness* remains, is filled with, embodies,
in fact, the maximum levels of peace,

the highest rates of joy and the
most whopping gargantuan un-

burstable balloons of giddy and
lovey-dovey contentment. Om.

*It need not be said (and yet here it is nonetheless) the list of
  specific characteristics which make up our goodness, which is to
  say that which it is that of goodness consists and of how just exactly
  to seek out and distinguish these various extant goodnesses, these
  are things that can only be officially ascertained by those (relatively few
  of us, of course) who are capable of intercepting, or in any other ways
  of finding, receiving and securely capturing, by way of what we
  call divine intervention; or by those (even fewer, I might sadly add)
  who hold the sacred gift of speaking The Tongue, of those who can
  and do communicate (directly) with undead (ghosts), with visions and
  a variety of erstwhile apparitions, which is to say only to those with such
  inherent knowledge and command over the ethereal beings, who can
  outwit them and with whom can negotiate, interpret and oversee
  implementation of enduring treatises of peace and liberation; and finally
  there are those (maybe one, perhaps two of us, tops, in each given era) we
  call The Learnèd. It is their lives who have been called forth to repurpose,

  to sacrifice themselves toward the greatest of all of services to human-  
  kind. These of the highest order are steeped completely, so as to become
  the masters in these the most divine studies, which are of the realms of
  in these most divine studies, in the realms of numbers, of stars and of all
  things horoscopic.

mmmccxii

Can’t Think Straight

I don’t know about you.
I know little enough of
myself, except of the child
in me at this very moment;
children, not my thing, but I
so wanna throw a big snotty
tantrum right now that I just
wanna I wanna I wanna, and
then leave whatever mess I
happen to make to the sweet
souls (such as, let me say and
be done with it, you) who’ll
so graciously coddle me,
flawed me, thankful me,
spiteful me, entitled me,
precious me. Thank you
for being so curious, turn
me into something better,
feed me, don’t take any-
thing I say at its absolute
word, and above all, get
serious! Unaware as you
probably are that I am.
Pick me up, you’re the
only one who knows
where I live, but
don’t tell, it’s a
secret only you will
ever know. I have
to go now. I know
it’s best. I really
don’t wanna.
But I’m gonna.
I know my way
out, as of course
you well know.
There are plenty
of sure things in
life, like why I’m
almost always
here, or when
I’m pulling your
leg, turning all
hot, what I
would say
whispering
into your ear,
but do not,
and why.
That your
ear makes me
wonder about
ears like I never
do, but used to.
I can only hope
that by now
you can see
how meaning-
less I have
become.
Don’t do as
I say, nor do
as I do. I
need, I think,
to fall asleep,
say good night,
offer my con-
dolences. Pay
me no heed,
I don’t mean
to offend, but
there’s only
one thing
that I need
(says the
heart on my
sleeve), and
I daresay I
must with
all circum-
spect believe
that on this
one thing we
would have
to agree,
don’t you
think?

mmmccxi

What’s Your Hurry?

I wake up anxious and spring
quickly from my mattress to
upright, my feet barely on the
floor. I’m nervous, I am pacing
the tiny path that fits within
the confines of the little box
I call my home. Back and
forth I go at this for a few
minutes, wondering about
coffee only enough to send
me into even more of a
panic. There is no time
for me to put on a pot, I
don’t even think, as I’m
immediately all down
on my laptop keyboard
checking messages.

There are none, of course,
and that, for whatever
reason, has me feeling at
least an inkling of calm,
as if I have the time to
poke around for just a
little bit, check the head-
lines, check my social media.

Nothing seems amiss, every-
thing is perfectly normal, no
instant message, nothing at all,
in fact, direct, nothing even
slightly personal. The closest
thing to anything is that
someone, for whom I used
to have no small amount of
respect and even admiration,
is going about making every-
body furious on the internet.
And it would be me included,
but my default is to ignore
such blips; in fact it’s second
nature: I deflect before such
nonsense comes even close to
grabbing distance of a neuron.
It’s the the rational thing to do,
of course. And besides, today
I’m in a hurry. Except –

I pause a moment, wonder what’s
the rush, really. I don’t have a
plane to catch, an interview, a
medical appointment, I certainly
don’t have a dinner date or any
thing the slightest bit romantic or
social or domestic on the horizon –
and try as I might (and I do) I can-
not begin to pinpoint what it is that
I’m in such a magnificent rush to do,
can’t figure out whatever it is that I
know I must, within the confines of
a calendar’s parameter, accomplish.

I check my little electronic book
of outstanding appointments,
even though I know already
that it’s April, it’s a Thursday,
and I’ve got bupkis ’til at least
September. And yet,

before you know it, here I am,
I’ve shot back up, and I am
pacing the miniature path that
fits between my bookshelf and
my sink and my little chest-of-
drawers atop which sits my
compact microwave oven,
like a teeny-tiny canyon
that leads from my desk
(that sits just beneath
the window that overlooks
a courtyard and of which it
could rightly be described the
very template of minimalism)

to the door that leads out to
the hallway, which will lead, 

in turn, down the stairs (or 

down the cranky elevator),

through the lobby and out the
door into a somewhat metro-
politan environ. But rather than
escape I pace as if an animal
fresh from the savannah upon
awakening and finding itself the
victim of captivity: back and
forth, and back, and forth,
and back, until I’m anxiously
trying to remember, once
again, the task I know I
absolutely must complete
by deadline. It’s due today
at some impending hyper-
critical time, and I’m most
insanely certain of it.

mmmccx

an anachronizm*

in which I present to you a poem

[the introduction of which you should have already received

approximately 24 hours hence]

the poem is constructed of actual text messages sent early

on the morning of april 13, 2021 which, at the time of this

writing, is yesterday. many apologies for my attempts to

create a sense of urgency or suspense or to highlight the

significance of what was to arrive and now has, here,

today. this poem, which I am posting late on the evening

of april 14, 2021, despite my enticements of last evening,

is the latest of three thousand two hundred and ten such

pieces which are part of a whole which I have been

building for almost two decades now, and for almost

nearly as long have been regularly posting here, via

blog, which is what I consider a wonderfully appropriate

means by which to present them. the one unique aspect

of this particular poem is that the text that follows is given

in the manner in which the exchange took place yesterday

and, and this is what makes it stand out, is placed in literal

time, noted in the way we normally do (see the dates that

appear above). whether you have just arrived for the first

time, or come and go with any regularity at all, thank you

very much for being here.

[of course, by now, i am pretty much nothing but a big red herring.]

feeling an emptiness of a sort, and having a desire to fill that void,

but without really wondering about it much at first, I text the follow-

ing to Marvin: “i wonder if you’ve read any of what i’ve been writing

of late.”

i have been thinking it has become a burden so many years of not having any real reaction and real time engagement of any kind, how important that has always been to me, or in more practical terms, how it was something that had always been there for me, i mean, i was pretty aggressive in making it happen year upon year upon year, but now just how there is this somewhat troubling cloud stirring in me for a long time and this morning it just dawned on me -- duh -- of course. this goes alongside a lot of this disengagement black hole that has been such a huge thing in my life since a bit before i was evicted. but i am only this morning even thinking about the performance and engagement side of art that totally disappeared and has

been gone now for over a half dozen years. it’s nice to suddenly get hit by this realization. of course it creates an echo chamber and makes everything seem too damned (gonna use an ‘academic’ metaphor here) onanistic.

so, now that that is clear, it ought to be a priority of mine to fix that problem. and in knowing it has been as severe as i now realize it has been, and that i miss that very much (and having it be so easy to think of this as some worthwhile process, too, so there's that), it ought to be something i should immediately go about remedying. also, it should be a piece of cake to do so, right? now that that i am struck by the obvious on such a subject as this. the doctor is in! hesitancy or unease on this subject: it’s a lot of ego. but ‘art’ for me art has always been social, reciprocal and, given that i was once upon a time (and so it’s still a solid part of me) a theater guy, really, it’s for better or worse impossible to dismiss the necessity of an audience.

but there’s a part of all of this that’s, well: the thing not to forget is that clearly i have one. an audience, i mean. not a throng, but a few, gradual, intermittent, but out there, if such things as internet links and website rankings and traffic statistics are, if that which those that tout such things flash in virtual neon as they swim around in the atmosphere, is in any way near accurate. (no wonder looking at those graphs and lists have boosted my aching eking spirit).

after a few minutes after sending that out, I receive this simple text back: “I wonder how you’re going to go about it.” my response: well, u know (or maybe not?) for most of my years as a writer (meaning since i was 29 or 30, which is when poetry took over as my - and i hate this word in this use, but it is the most appropriate given its general use in such circumstances - passion), i have regularly hosted ‘salons’ (another word for which, in this context, i am kind of turned off by) or poetry sharing soirees, poem-swaps, which were always a big deal to me. since quite a while before i was displaced that just hasn’t happened - for mostly obvious reasons. but i think i need to have as a prioritized goal rejiggering and resuming them in some way. and, rather than spend so much time bitching about having no local friends (while there still remain several individuals with whom I spent a lot of time believing that’s what they were, which has since been such a motivation suck when it comes to rebuilding such a group, but I digress – because i’m talking now about poets, and i never get close enough to other poets for such troubles to occur. . . ). . . .

anyway, for starters i think i shall use my texts on this subject to you, that question, and my response, pretty much verbatim, as my anachronizm for today. that would be a start, i think. and a way to sort of force myself to think more on this, which seems like what i should surely do.

*now that I have had my own place again for these 26 months. . .
 (alternative title) 

mmmccix

an anachronizm*

in which I present to you a poem

 

[and, simultaneously, an introduction to another poem]

which is just one of many that exists in what is now (now?

sure. now!) a considerably lengthy accumulation of poems

that are attempts, individually and summarily, at heart, fun

damentally intended to, among an array of additional stuff

(what I am saying here is that there is a growing list of

twisting, turning and evolving fundamentals, but the one

that I am focusing on at present is that I mean to) skew

time in such a way, utilizing many means, some of them

original with regard to intent, others serendipitous, in a

sort of mixed-bag, throw-everything-in way that brings

into or out of focus various aspects of, a new perspective

on, a life lived. I am thinking now that this is not unlike

how a prism, when utilized, may, for one who observes,

bring light itself into ‘focus’

but to limit is not only to reduce, it also limits. to exclude.

so as to focus.

maybe to release that which binds time and [ space ]

might expose [and it does; it has; I have seen it]

I am not just an observer, my intent is not simply

to observe, and

as a journalist, a report, a social anthropologist, as

This is not simply an awkward means of coaxing

an ego ever towards hubris. (or, boy, do I ever

hope that this is not only what I do; am doing)

Yeah, but in the act of doing so (conscientiously?) . . .

(always this stultifying need to explain myself!)

But if I scrutinize self, in so doing, might I be so

rational that I may – can I be scientist enough

that I – also remove my self in the process (I am

suggesting a rather lofty strip tease here, and

while I have dressed – and begun to undress)?

This notion as an enticing one, as well as what

seems an ironic one to me, but I will tell you

that it (alas!) is not what I am going for here.

(If I throw myself in all of my various incarnations.

If, as a purported sentient being, I pin a carnation

to my lapel;

if all I do is fret and strut and ham it up, waving my

arms all about, as if to only say

“Look at me!! Look at me!!!” . . . .

Well, and why not?)

(but, really...)

All I am trying to say you is that I’ve got a poem for

you. But not this one. I mean, yes, this is a poem,

too. And I do most civilly offer it to you, for your – I’ll

just say consideration, and be done with it. But

that’s not the point at all. My point is, well, I shall

make my point tomorrow. Is that ,,, I know this

surely must seem ,,, well ,,, I was going to say

frustrating. This particular poem. Trying to ex-

plain it all to you. Going about making any point

at all. It does get a bit ridiculous. I know. Or I

would think. Well, I do think. But, obviously, there

is an impulse in me that is contrary to that (line

of thought?). Or. How’s this: if you come back

tomorrow, I will, while perhaps grounding myself

more particularly or specifically within the confines

of time (considering, just between you and me, that

this is the sort of specificity, that is, setting a scene

that is focused specifically on a very particular and

authentic and singular moment in time, that I’ve

exerted no small effort avoiding, here, in this

particular location, using this specific means of

conveyance, over these many years), will present

to you that for which you are, at this very moment,

taking the time to read (and for this, dear friend, I

am enormously grateful) is a mere introduction.

With that, I say good night and good day. And I

hope to meet you here (or anywhere, if it comes

right down to it) tomorrow.

*this is why I am a poet and not a scientist

  (an alternative title)

mmmccviii

The Plot Thickens

there aren’t enough olives
(“olive you, olive me not,
olive you. . .”). there’s
nowhere to turn right.
there’s hardly any spo-
ken word; are you even
in here? if so, why aren’t
there any floodlamps to
obliterate the miniature
curtains of flimsy film
that hang behind our
eyeballs and map out
our billowy fragility
of memory. where’s
that raspberry now
that I’ve come prep-
ared, now that I get
how best to take it.
I’d be a surfer too if
I looked like that. the
doors open. my eyes
might as well. death
to the dearth of the
cute catchwords that
wobble in and out of
my ears. and they
always are going so
quickly to nowhere.
they, like me (do they
like me? i often wonder.
that’d be so entirely
unlike science.), always
alight upon a metropolis
(and metropolises are
pretty much always lit).
once there was a scowling
kid in search of another (so
long as it was scowl-free).
a kid bumps into other kids.
it happens a lot. it’s so easy.
kids are so cheesy, sometimes
irritable, horrid, mean little
people, easily excitable, and
they wear a lot of faces –
these are blanket statements;
broad strokes – but, so, it’s rare
to find one having a dull moment
(am I boring you?). as an adult,
I find a child’s scowl rather charm-
ing at sunset, which was, of course,
when we always used to watch the
children glide down the San Fran-
cisco hills, or else smoke up the
sidewalks doing the moonwalk
to and fro. where in the devil
is everyone, anyway? it’s gotten
so dark and there isn’t any
flame left in me. I’d brew a
pot of coffee to drink in the
dark if you were here. if
you were here, I’d almost
certainly have you over.
and look at this cream,
will you? my senses are
still as dull as ever, but
you were always sensible,
with preferences that’d
so wildly fluctuate be-
tween two poles the
difference of which
I could never discern.
only you could talk
me through the
subtle variants
that would in-
deed abound
on a long walk
from ivory to
taupe (and
back!).
but look
at me now,
chucking the
keys of the
grand piano
into the chute
(well aware it’s
normally for
laundry), which,
boy, did we ever
tinkle! how could
I help but think,
“Oh, shucks,
what ever
became of
my poor
dear Aubrey?”

mmmccvii

from Help Wanted: 88 Problems
        In Search Of A Pot To Stew In

It’s too early to be here before you all
runningaroundandwriting over my
latest dilemma. But this is what I
do. So. How shall I put this? Well,
this bit of nothing, the business of
which is not only completely out of
the blue (at least for you) and, I
might add, is embarrassing (and
not just in the slightest) - and in
sharing, reveals me pretty much
at over the range of okay and
right well into uncouth. I ought
not, perhaps (as my dad used to
say), be allowed to roam free
uncouth, to be allowed to roam
amongst (into and out of, neither
betwixt nor between) proper
social circles of any brow, high
or low. However, with no real
precedent but that of whimsy,
and with what turns out to be an
ironic and ridiculously overarching
confidence, I’ll go ahead and now
say to you what’s on my mind,
what’s causing me such cold
sweats and consternation.
Simply put, in a manner of
speaking, “What isn’t hot
certainly isn’t getting any
hotter!” This, at least, is
how my dearest pa’d
always put it. Only there
would beso many times,
dozens upon dozens, when
those words he’d utter,
I’d be too much a dullard
to ever comprehend (and
I am certain he was never
as vague as I am now). I
stand as evidence here
on a street corner in
my neighborhood
on a rainy evening
(I might as well add
without an umbrella)
with an unpleasant
case of “Eureka!”
And as the accum-
ulated drizzle pours
like tiny rivulets
born by my very
own teardrops,
that I perform
for you, , ,well
, , , in what I
should have
mentioned
earlier is an
exercise, that is,
a means by which
a limitation is (or
limitations are)
established so as
to pinpoint, or
to highlight, or
to express some-
thing (sometimes
just about anything)
of singularity for
– and this is the
ultimate hope –
a purpose (e.g.,
to specify a flaw
in character; [so
as to] rectify)...

Shall we continue?
Or, better yet, I
believe we would
better be served
if I just shut up un-
til after I’ve tough

ened my resolve at 

least a little bit, un

til I can properly
square my opt-
imism, and only
then should I
get back to you,
let us say, to
morrow? – with
a solution in
search of a
problem,
rather than –
or better yet,
with a map, 

that leads, 

like that 

yellow brick 

road of yore

, , ,to , , , 

well, , , ,

Uh, from my home
to yours, this is me,
saying as I sign off
for yet another
evening, stay
tuned for tomorrow,
when I shall truly lay
bare that which is, um,
my house. Or, well, but
first, I must welcome my
pal, the exterminator, for
there sure needs to be a
whole lot of shoo fly, uh
(I hafta get the bugs out,
if you know what I mean,
urg!) . . . . . . . . . .

mmmccvi

I Am Back At It

(in which
I list the
ways to
find one
self any
where
but here)

this is a
partial
list of:

_ how not
   to find me
   at the x:

_ circum
   vention.

_ all the
   ways to
   say the
   things
   you can
   to ensure
   that you
   never
   bump in
   to me any
   where,
   period.

_ easy ways
   to make it
   impossible
   to locate
   yours truly...

_ avoi
   dance;

_ i dare u
   2 find me;

_ want my
   address?

_ who, him?
   I heard he
   died.

_ did you try
   google?

_ invisible
   individual
   (it’d be ill
   advised...),
   invincible.

_ incog
   nito,
   too!

_ before it gets
   too dark, please
   be so kind as to
   close the door
   behind you.

_ peek-a-boo!

_ absolute
   absolution
   absolves
   absolutely.
   (not!)

mmmccv

This Performance Has
Been Brought To You By:

If I did any-
thing em-
barrassing
don’t you
think I’d
be embar-
rassed by
now?

mmmcciv

La Danse Impossible

I wake up singing (!!)
“Chiquita Banana” –
I really love it when
I wake up singing.

I flip through my feed
and catch small flashes
of inspiration. They
come at me, of

course, from
all directions,
just like my im
possible room

mates. Here’s
two of them
now. They’re
brand new

and so, having
just arrived,
“Team,” I say,
“meet Chee Zee.”

Everyone rowdily
says hello to Chee.
“And this here is
Mr. C.H. Allen, Jr.,

but you can call
him Chuck.” No
one worries about
the joke but me. E

veryone gets a
long swimmingly.
I adjust my direct
ion, facing the

corner in hopes
of giving the
gang at least
the notion of

comfort, of
elbow room,
a luxury
here;

I’ve a lot of
impossibility
to fit inside
my tiny home.

The place is abuzz,
people are getting
along, the air has
a palpable sizzle of

expectancy you
can almost see,
a whistle just
enough off

register that if
you scrunched
your face just
so, you’d trick

your ears,
swearing
you hear it,
like a stove-

top kettle
the instant
before its
hiss. Without

using breath,
I keep singing.
Catching tunes
from I don’t know,

it’s freeflow radio.
The signals pulse
more from below so
the drifting melodies

interfere less
with the stuff
in my skull
(where it

feels like a
particularly
competitive
game of dodge

ball is underway,
or perhaps it’s
Olympic tether
ball!). Compart

mentalization
in this, my tiny
apartment filled
with me and all

of my impossible
roommates (I can
hear Silly-Willy chit
chatting now with

Chuck, who’s such
a flirt, though he’d
never own up to it.
And poor Chee, beet

red at the wall of El
vis, smitten already
by Siri. She does
that so unwittingly;

“That’s Siri S. Li,
and don’t you
forget it,” she’d
blurt, and then

pretend a blush.
But she’s not
shy in the
least). Now,

at ease enough
in my corner to
tune it all out,
I contemplate

what the day
has all ready
for me. “Are
you lonesome,

tonight,” I in
audibly sing,
incapable of
going a day

without
The King
(his face is
on the calendar

– 12 Months of
Elvis – on the
opposite wall;
I can feel him

looking down
on me). Then
after a bit, and
just as abrupt,

but softly,
so as not
to interrupt
the others,

“One
is the lone
liest number
that you’ll

ever do.”
And they
just keep
coming.

I could,
I know,
so easily
knock all

of this off
rhythm, blow
to bits this
composition.

I could make
a difficult go of
it all, turn the
day into dust

as if I had
just awoken
from a dream
wherein I was

someone
else, and
that this
pedestrian

pastiche
was never
meant to be;
that it is naught

of me.
. . . But
what do
I do . . . ?

I toughen
my mettle,
right what
ever dis

cord, and
focus[!!].
For what a
magnificent

thing it
is to
wake up
singing!

I think
that I
shall
dance

the entire
day through,

just me and

my crew, my

lovely set of im

possible friends.

And what an
adventure’s in

store for me,
as that’s pre
cisely what I
choose to do.

mmmcciii

A Few Thoughts on Passing

       is polyamory anticapitalist
             —Sophia Dahlin

I say make them
small; they don’t
need to be too
much.  These

meanderings.
I’m getting a
head of myself.
Stitched up in

a wannabe fury
try holding it all
in (makes more
of a fury than a

wannabe).  I tell
it to shut up.   “Get
ahold of yourself!”
I say to it.  The

goo, I guess.
“What would you
have me call it?”
Okay.  C’est vrai.

We have to do
this sidewalk
together so we
may as well

make it great
(again?).  Like
it ever was.  It
as in all of us.

I’m not a bad guy
but I (should I tell
him?) play one on
teevee.   Oui!  I

spent a lot of time
drooling about be-
ing slathered in
holy matrimony.

That was the other
guy.  We’re me now.
Isn’t that pretty
fantastic?  (“When

I saw him look-
ing our way, my
first thought was
‘lead by example.’”)

mmmccii

chase turns deadly

     if you feel yourself
     becoming stranger
     howdy stranger
            —Sophia Dahlin

in pursuit
of art, he
exposed
his heart,
and it
wasn’t
the least
bit pretty.

mmmcci

the pace at which

                                The tall earth lilts me
     trippily on prongs.
                                   —Sophia Dahlin

hello. i am currently
heading to the post
office so that i can
pay my rent this month
(a small reminder to myself:
it’s a money order, not a
cashier’s check, i think?),
on the monday after easter,
which, like all holidays this past
year, mean nothing, are of no
consequence, being not unlike
any regular day. i’ve gotten so
used to this one man show here
at the hotbox that days go by and
i haven’t even stepped out the door,
but now i’m out, out and performing
what surely must strike anyone taking
notice as a ridiculously lugubrious bit
of speed-walking, which has made for
what feels like a larger-than-organ-sized
tetrahedron of concentrated pain emanating
from the better half of my gut due, most ass-
uredly, to the general laziness and lack of any
exertion that twelve and a half months (give or
take a day or two) of virulent contagion-imposed
solitude, brought about thanks to no small amount
of fear (also virulent, thanks to said virulence) and
a moderate portion of general etiquette, which, in
such duration have combined to enable discipline
enough to have turned this erstwhile extravert into
an agoraphobe (a side effect so illogical that, despite
having caught the scourge, recovered from it and
being vaccinated for it, all in the span of the last
month and a half, it remains the ruler of this
particular domain!), , ,which all brings me
back to the lovely scene of me, wincing
with each step i take (thinking I’m
going at quite a clip and yet, am
surely just as slow as the
days are long), so that
in i shall walk, round
about 4:59pm,
so that i can
purchase
from the
u.s. postal
service a
piece of
paper
that
will
keep
me hanging
on for at least
one more month
in my cozy little
home sweet
home in
the hood.
which is
a nice re-
minider, act-
ually, that things
aren’t half bad.
they’re not even
bad at all, really.
so what if i wince
just a bit as i
hobble up the
stairs and slip
the check
into its slot,
then mosey
up just one
more flight
to my modest
little box to post
this silly note to
you, as if to say
hello, and how
are you, it’s been
quite a while, but
here i am. and
here i shall
(knock wood)
remain,
as ever,
yours

mmmcc

at the end of the day

     fairies are money
     —Sophia Dahlin

holy smokes,
did i ever
fritter away
the day! i
mean, sure,
it’s sunday,
a day for
peace and
reflection,
but still,
at the end
of the day,
what has an
entire day of
lounging in
a vegetative
state done
for me,
when all
i get is an
impending
monday?
and what’s
worse: then
it arrives.
it’s here.
and it’s
just
glaring
at me.
all day.
on a
monday.

mmmcxcix

new beginnings in normalton

whitman and fede were playing their usual afternoon game of mah-jongg. “that movie last night,” fede had popped out of concentrating on the table, “that movie was damn spooky, it was all kindsa messed up!” “was it?” whitman seemed particularly intent on keeping his focus on the game. “yeah, it was just too real.”

without even a glance upward, whitman responded “people are crazy these days.” he then took a long drag from a cigarette that appeared to be just ash and, placing a bright orange tile onto the pile, added, “who’s to know where even to begin.”

jenny checked the panel and was astonished to see that it was 3:40pm. she tried to remember why she had left work so early. she had planned, assumed, really, that she’d be in for the long haul again tonight, as usual, probably clocking out around ten. with her head spinning in an attempt at understanding what she was doing, her pontiac had slowed to a crawl, and she instinctively flicked the blinker left and readied to make the turn onto maple drive; her small red-bricked house sat just a few meters beyond the cul-de-sac at which the short residential road came to an end.

when it finally dawned on her, jenny had been home only a few short minutes. at first she felt a few prickles of apprehension. before long, she began to feel right ready, awake and aware. things were definitely not normal here in normalton. “this would not be subtle, of course,” she thought, “and why should it be?!” the rows of tulips that ran adjacent to the walkway to her front door, to which every weekend since early february she had gotten down on knees to attend, smothering each plant with love and want, were distinctly ablaze. nothing else but the tulips were on fire. the afternoon sky was the color of a turnip and the sun, which could be seen with ease on its perch upon and beyond the purple sky, had sprouted long, garish petals, as if the sun itself were a bloom awaiting its blaze.

the purple sun that’s sprouted four long, billowing petals that glow neon green at north, south, east and west or noon, 3pm, 6pm, 9pm and midnight, is now, therefore, more recognizably a colorful “x” or a cross, appeared for some reason violently oversized for something as faraway as sky and sun and space. this new celestial sphincter, and by now this should come as no surprise, begins to bellow: a smoothly booming baritone voice, coming from what used to be the sun, with language most easily understood by all, speaks now, at great length, of diminishing returns. a sermon about investments that dry up and wither away is being delivered by this huge new celestial being to the people of normalton, to the people of earth.

several hours later, well into the night of diminished returns and the end of normalcy as it was once comfortably known, whitman arrives home, parks in the cul-de-sac at a precise 90 degree angle against maple drive, walks through the corridor of flaming tulips and into the front door of his home, where his wife jenny sits facing the living room window as if it were an oversized television. her jaw is frozen in a dropped position as she applies what appears to be lipstick or, perhaps, lip balm over the “o” that her lips make, the stick travels the entire circle of her mouth and then starts over again, her hand rotating in the air between the window and her open face.

“honey,” whitman says, walking toward his wife at an easy pace, “jen dear, you’ve got it on the wrong channel, you silly willy.” arriving where she is, he helps her up from the chair she has unfolded just to sit and watch the spectacle that has unfolded on the front lawn, above and beyond. tucking his shoulder underneath hers, he leads her toward the stairway. “no wonder you’re so confused, honey. you’re not even watching our show. let me get it right for you.”

and then he half-carries, half-leads her up the stairs, where they each then proceed to remove their respective day-wear, pull on their night-wear and, each, individually, from their respective side, slip underneath sheet and comforter onto the big bed, just as they have done most every night for many years. once each is packaged neatly atop the mattress and beneath the linens, their heads, the one belonging to whitman and, about a meter away, the one belonging to jenny, swivel a little until each is each propped just so, on a pillow apiece. after a couple or so minutes, with eyes beginning to flutter a bit, both heads begin to fill with the deadpan rhythms of ordinary dreams.

mmmcxcviii

catgut yr tung?

it was wurst
we imagined 

us such polar
opa! zits – a
stick of bear
in the mud of
the subaltern

basalt basalt

we – a pear
that made a
mouth pokes
out scissors
uh tuba bath
twitching a 

cistern isn’t 

inevitably 

evil

mmmcxcvii

your papers have not been validated

the claim was a matter of
fact was a matter of inference
about a fact about a facial tic

or perhaps it was a fiction
about a farcical fling the decor
hung from the ceiling was flung

from the rafters - it was only
the principal (who just happened
to also be super indented) had

meant (no pun intended, he’d
come to admit), no singular
offense he meant whole-

hearted and circumspect, to
outdo the big to do with all of
that hullaballoo. his unified

purpose was inadvertently
inverted and so what could
not be avoided, to jettison any

over-performers by chopping
in two their circumference
tossing one half to the

flotsam while stealthily
tossing the rest of what’s
left of ’em into the jetsam.

however, would that this
vertical world held any such
logic - rather - he’d revel in

this spectaculish last act. how’s
that for a finish that sums up
all of us? what begins with a

3rd-rate expletive arrives with a
bang, yet nary a word of explanation
- just the explosion that renders it

riven at the very beginning of
the expedition (hence, the whole
thing being cleverly called off).