mmmccl

punks vs. pundits

it was the year all the mem-bots
got migraines. sarge’d blame
“the goddam emo-upgrades”
but mostly we were all just
bored solid. “roblogs are
nerds, too,” i can hear ’im
squawk in the present (irl),
a wannabe in real, “no
pain, no solid,” all
high-like, on the
tundra to nowhere.
same as like walking
backwards on one of those
flat escalators like they used to
have in all the heliports. “’member?”
“you must be,” the whisper came and
went, “y-you must be the jerk-bot, jerk-
bot, j-j-jerk-bot,” stuck in the joke loop. all
of ’em got laugh-sprayed (tethered to a tubular
spliff-blot, no doubt). but before the sprockets
finally pooped out, clumped up like hair-blobs
what got the itch to stick its digits into sockets.

mmmccxlix

not a dry eye
(& other stuff
you probably
already know)

tonight down
memory lane
with friends
(the sitcom,
but i guess,
just as well,
having any),
phoebe poo
poos the i
dea of any
more re
unions,
lament
ing the no
tion of be
ing floopy
at her age (“at
my age?!”) and
i’m all “no, but
phoebe!” and
even here
all by my
self i can feel
the skin of my
face heat up
to a quick
simmer cuz
i remember
enough to
siphon that
i’m straight
up for sure
floopier
now than
i can recall
ever being.
in fact, i’d
venture,
i’m the
floopiest
human
with
whom
i am at
least well
enough
acquaint
ed to ev
en sug
gest as
much (&
i know
from
floopy,
of this
you can
be most
assured,
which i
initially,
of course,
write “of
this you
can be
most ar
rested in
surance”
[which,
“high
five!?”]).

mmmccxlviii

Step 3: Dividing By Zero

I found his communication
pill ineffective; all wounding
me with gag words, the fluff of
an eggy vapor, like that of passed
gas, if veneer appears it shows up
as a bunch of billowing blobs which
are each and all too leaky-baloony
to pop or hold any air of danger,
nothing but nothing on the in-
side. My job’s Mountain-out-
of-Molehill Maker. I whoop
up this guttural baloney and
turn it into something polished.
I’ve tuned up the blandest,
turned tar into tarnation,
goosed the dullest bulbs
til out came naught but
big, bold and italic. It’s
all simple mathematics,
really. Rub a rookie
just right and he’ll
poop a diamond.
Happens all the
time: the lights
dim, a hush
sweeps
through
Laughin’
Cavern (it’s
what you’d imagine
Hell’s most enormous con-
ference hall would be, brimming
with what seems to be millions of
stinky minions, the worst of the worst
of the absolute worst, all packed
like sardines into one gar-
gantuan, dark, dank,
smelly, endless
cave); and
blessed be
the vapid
tonight,
for there’s
not a dry eye
in the entire house.

mmmccxlvii

A Dull Thud at Half Past Seven

thumbing through the
metropolitan phone
book: “yep, I read
him this morning; yes;
yeah; didn’t read him;
yep; yep; her, too; oh,
her?! do I have to?”
and I’m wondering “oh,
sure!” the lilacs, the
gardenias, the swell
of the band at dessert
(already?!), my britches.
“the colonel hasn’t lost
his touch, I see.” “but
what about his taste?”
everyone’s a critic! one
can hear several birds
late of an evening in
these parts. finches
are not one of ’em. it
was directly before cur-
few and one could al-
ways rest assured that
the heads of state were
off gallantly head-butting.

mmmccxlvi

“You Come From Outer Space,

and I understand completely
why you won’t go into the
specifics, I really do. How-
ever, and do please forgive me,
but is there – isn’t there anything
you can say further to that, as
this news is fairly remarkable.

I come from rural Arkansas, as
I’m sure I have mentioned on
numerous occasions, so of course
I can relate, I can truly empathize
with you, and on so many levels.
You can’t expect me NOT to be
curious – out of my mind with

curiosity – after such a profound
revelation, right?” I had only just
recently dedicated my life to devout
patience. That could not have been
mere coincidence. So much toward
which my overarching curiosity had
been bent in these last few years,

along with a plethora of additional
vagaries that never quite made it
to the forefront of my attention, now,
all of a sudden, made whopping sense.
My thoughts went off on a bit of a tangent,
halfway in an attempt toward the patience
to which I had sworn allegiance. I was

thinking about how odd that a revelation
so mind-bending could act as a catalyst
enabling such clarity. I stood there in
silence, long enough to at first scrutinize
my lover, my bestie, my confidante, from
head, slowly down and over every inch to
toes, and then all the way back up again,

before looking away for a few moments,
until I couldn’t stand it any longer, drawn
back to complete yet another top to bottom
and back to top scan, assessing, mulling,
looking for any sign, any clue, that might
help me wrap this newly revealed absurdity,
this news that had already turned my entire

life over before then thoroughly twisting it
inside out. Any hint at an emotion, even;
regret, perhaps? But there was absolutely
nothing. A small eternity whiled itself away
as I, leaning hard as I could into reverence,
into Patience, allowed my mind to rid itself
of everything, little by little, a process that

was interrupted by the extraterrestrial in
front of me opening its arms in an apparent
invitation for a hug, which I soon, by slowly
walking forward into them, accepted. My last
thought before what felt like several bees
stinging me simultaneously at the tips of all
my extremities at once, was short and simple:

“Am I the only one?”

mmmccxlv

Big Win

June wept for September.
Kate quite hungrily ate a plate.
Milling around town with several hours to spare,
the pope purchased himself a very ripe cantaloupe.

mmmccxliv

The last line _____

never comes.
comes too soon.
holds an envelope
as an offering. had
it coming. was a coup.
is total validation. was
hardly ample recompense.
turned everything that had
preceded it into an invoice.
is well past due (what a
yawn!). was his final wish.
is in an urn that sits on the
mantle. wasn’t legally binding.
dangles a carrot. doesn’t for-
give. has bang. goes ka-boom!
whinnies. withers. dithers. has
almost everybody shivering. went
clunk! goes kerplop! flip-flopped.
threw a fit. went flat. had all of
the flappers doing backflips.
is the same as the first. acts
like it hasn’t read anything
that ever came before it.
catapults our heroine into
adulthood, seamlessly
connecting the first
book with its uproarious
sequel. steals the show.
was the consequence of a
foot that slams into the brakes,
bringing a speeding automobile
to a screeching halt. is rather
unnecessary. is even worse
than the first. erases every-
thing that has heretofore
transpired. is a new
beginning. introduces
the audience to a
brand new you.
doesn’t mind.
isn’t kind.
is but a few
empty words.
was clearly not
intended to quell
a foul mood. was
spit at the enemy’s
face as our hero falls
to his death. is whis-
pered lovingly with a
lisp. comes in the
guise of a thief’s
unwarranted kiss.
hisses. was pissed.
has the class finally
dismissed. is the
sound of a steady
springtime rain-
shower. paints
an image of a
train that is
steamrolling
into the dis-
tance. is that
damsel who’s
known to be
a bit overly
dramatic.
kind of
snuck up
on me, did
it do the
same to
you? is
“boo!”
cries
“boo
hoo!”
bids us
all a good
day. wishes
us a good night.
wonders whether
or not you’ll miss me
now that I’m finished.
all tuckered out, after
such an adventure,
says, “come to
bed.” disappears
around the corner.

mmmccxliii

Step 42: Sublimity In The Death Equation

“Here we all are,” he welcomed us,
“each of us leading these bilingual,
trilingual lives, etc.” To be honest,
all I could think about at the time
was the amount of wood your
garden variety woodchuck
might, on average, be
able to chuck. (Out-
put has always
been key, at
least to
me; in-
put, meh.)

mmmccxlii

15-second emission

oh there were days of
mailbox. the curtain
opens the mgm lion
roars. this missive
is no post-card it’s
space-dust is it
ghost dust? do
you recall mouth-
ing maps; “meet
me someplace,”
which wasn’t out-
er space or in a
cloud of extra
lazy-ass per-
ception; not
at all a trip-
py heinlein
color-blob
that spock
took acid
just to
fanta-
size.
we’re
every
last bot
of us a
message
in a bottle
biding super-
natural time
for whatever
micro-moment
taken by our in-
dividual existence,
until at the very end
we prettily wrap our
presence into a minia-
ture speck, that we
intend as an encap-
sulation of all of what-
ever it was and is that
we think we thought
we got that just might
perhaps be worthily sal-
ient or at the very least
salvageable enough to
pass along to whoever’s
coming next, so that
as we take our
final breath, we
get to witness all of
our compacted rid-
iculousness explode –
if you can call it that, who
would even notice? – into
space, leaving entropy
to take care of it from
there, with hardly
a noticeable flair,
that nonetheless
has upstaged
our very be-
ing, and in
that very in-
stant when
we are, with
fanfare, on par
with the flush
of a toilet,
down the
drain goes
our exist-
ence – and
on it is to
the next del-
usional soul.

mmmccxli

How Not to Broach the Subject

I wonder whether or not I
should tell him about the
time I, well . . . I suppose
that I had better not.

mmmccxl

The Half-Open Closet

There’s my newest
jacket, orange-ish,

with inlay of cartoon-
like silhouette which I

press my back against
to hide whenever I wear

it. The chartreuse-
colored twin-sized

bed sheet I put up in
an attempt to shroud

the disarray that is
my closet’s contents

hangs open at a
diagonal, as if per-

haps in invitation to
join the hangers, skewed

at various odd angles and
the blobs of dirty laundry

bunched up beneath
an extra chair I’ve

attempted to hide,
but keep, just in

case of company.
It’s a little bit de-

pressing, I think, as
I sit on the head of

my bed, reading
and writing, how

the closet (maybe
it’s open for a means

of escape, in which
case I empathize and

stand in solidarity
with that awkwardly-

hued and mis-dangled
curtain) works in cahoots

with the entire room, now
that I shamefully see it,

against me, its sole and
solitary human inhabitant.

And so, I press my nose
so deep into my book

it acts a pair of blinders,
and hide my entirety in-

side these words in a
stubborn attempt to

ignore the pouty pleas
addressed to me by

my very own glum
conspiratorial home.

mmmccxxxix

found: incomplete draft of a
penguin postcard for kevin

Tea-time arrived none too
soon for the Master & Missus
Litchfield of the Penguin Litchfields.

For the master, a small dip of his beak
into a blueberry scone and—presto
chango!—the spindly mustard-colored

tricorn that rode atop the Missus’s
covered bun weren’t the only perfectly
angled vectors in the esplanade.

[begin kevin’s half]

mmmccxxxviii

Shingles in the Eyeball

is what Conan O’Brien
tells Sean Hayes that
he actually had once,

in between long bouts
of his iconically wheezy
guffaws.

the two had arrived at
the topic of this malady
by way of a plug for a
podcast that Mr. Hayes
co-hosts, which is called
(and you can no doubt
imagine the connection)
HypochondriActor.

But as both guest and
host were bent as far
to the floor as their
heads could reach,
laughing like man-
iacs, all I could
think of was

Shingles in the Eyeball

mmmccxxxvii

Limerick pandemico

I once had a love back in Italy
Who one day proclaimed quite wittily

“I adore you so,
You’re my favorite beau!”
So now we live right here in Sicily.

mmmccxxxvi

there just isn’t any time
for goodbyes

hello,
howdy,
how goes it,
head?

head’s a
hole, that’s
what, that’s
how it goes.

who says,
head? I said
who’s really to
say how it
goes?

says the hole
you called a
head, that's
who!

i didn’t know.

well now you do!

good gawd head
& good gawd hole!

well, if it isn’t 

our good mister 

headache!

man, if this
isn’t just all

I can take!

YOU ARE THE 

HEADACHE!

AND I AM 

THE HOLE!

that’s what

either one 

or two 

of us

said.

hey there,
hi there
and ho
there,
hole!

[mutter
mutter
and pause]
well whattaya
know [head’s
head held in its
gigantic hands]

[all rise
to meet
the rowdy
chorus as
they sing
their:]
hello hello hello
hello hello hello
hello hello hey
hello hello
hello hello

hey hole!

hey head!

are you
thinking
what I’m
thinking?

yep! says head

yes, indeed!
says hole

[head, hole
and headache,
in unison:]
that sure was
one raucous
caucus!

[the chorus
chimes in with
round two of
hellos, etc.]

mmmccxxxv

How Do Wop w/o
a Wah-Wah Myoot

the grace the
plungers that
open and shut
the snout of
our dear trum-
pets forlorn
french horns
the ting-ting
of our triangle’s
mustachioed
maraca mar-
imba and it’s
jazz as it is
and it’s jazz
as it does
the tiny joke
that hurts like
a hangnail as
clocks big as
ben strike at
twelve, and
look over there
that’s our sado-
masochistic
flageolet flag-
ellating the tuba
bullies into bones
the baritones make
flutes out of our whatever
wartime rumbles give birth
to, all seventy-six trombones
just before swallowing a
baritone sax, the bigger the
sax the more bongo the
boing-boings like bagpipes
that get lost in the biggest
baddest pipes you see high
in the sky of the gigantic
cathedral, the ones that
go boom so big that the
organist dares themself
not to avoid (and to boot
the death throe sounds
have big rats so in shock
and the ruckus erupts 

their own home sweet 

homes so, that the poor
things can never rid 

themselves of the 

shakes) because

when down goes his
foot across that big
pedal, why then out
comes a roar that’d
awaken the devil that
ends more like what
one just knows is a 

bagpipe’s hiccough, so 

one might, like a duck, be
compelled to worship rather
a clarinet, that is, if you’re lucky-
duck enough to bump into one
and who gets to know the sound
of an argument made by a bunch
of harps, that is a harp harp harp
and a harp being tickled so smooth
dripping trippy by eight long arms 

with eighty long fingernails, each 

one bent askew to make room 

for the violas and the violins
that upon arrival coax the
entire plucky bunch into
wartime bunkers so well-
made you’d forget about
violence altogether, go 

outright bonkers, were it
not for the harpsichords –
and what’s more absurd
than a gun-toting harpsi,
what’s less hilarious than
a slapstick with the oblong
certainty an oboe, squeeing 

here an oboe, there an oboe,
here an o, there a bow, 

everywhere a musical
elbow – which, when 

get bumped clump so
altogether that they

stump even the 

symphony nerds (yes,
even the tenors still 

stuck in puberty) an 

ensemble who woos 

the woodwinds that
squawk harsher than long
nails on slate into stints as
dj's at the dance-hall down the
alley, watch them scoot their
needles over the thirty-eights,
the sounds of creaky gates,
a midnight that has the
cowbells bingle-bongle
for a little bit before it’s
back to crickets for us
bums, at least, that is,

til the dance-club’s 

open and we’re 

all up and at it

once again.

mmmccxxxiv

My Life Back Is Gone

as is my handwriting,
which shocks me quite
a bit upon grazing
it as I survey my
desk. do I instantly
begin to steam, like
in cartoons, turn red,
smoke out my ears
and nose, eye-veins
enlarge so that there
is more red than white
or brown or black or
hazel (every once in
a while, like dad)? am
I now more calm than
anything else, how very
simple and quick I go
from cartoon melo-
drama, hyperbole,
to serenity, it can’t
be the unexpected
interruption of my
dad showing up here?
how could that be? I
wonder, and in con-
clusion, chuckle. it
was more of a multi-
beat or multi-syllabic
chuckle than one that
might be mistaken as
hmph, perhaps, or a
hiccough. stirring in
the background at the
moment is a poetry
reading, live, on zoom,
my first time, welcome
to the roaring ’20s, I
think. calm. a warm
feeling between the
bottom of my neck
and the line of my
chest. I overhear
“the discovery of
joy,” exactly as I
write this. only
a few seconds
between the
words coming
at my ear from
my phone that
I’ve hung on a
couple of hooks
on the wall next
to my desk and
seeing them
onscreen, here,
in the tiny home
where I exist, and
have, without even
one visitor now, for
sixteen months, yes,
it has been sixteen,
the range of emo-
tions that I feel,
have felt, from
seeing something
so terrifying that
I had written, or
hopefully, rather,
misreading a line
that I had written,
barely able to read
my own handwriting
any more, and the
modicum of sway
of the words and
sounds that are
piped in from the
poetry reading,
which I hear in
bits and as they
drift into my room
from my phone,
from the east
coast, in fact,
a book launch.
the unexpected
interruption by
my father. my
morbid sense of
humor, almost
alongside my
irrational and
short temper,
all of which,
I want to say,
are part of a
cognizant and
consistent effort
on my part simply
to allow things to
come at me, that
openness that gives
permission for what-
ever comes my way
to do what it does,
while I experience
it, am fed by it, and
try not to let any-
thing get out of
hand; this kind
of living is
a luxury made
available to me
by the imposed
solitude, which
is nothing I ever
wanted, ever even
thought would find
me, because I had
no way to predict,
much less to com-
prehend what this
foreign landscape
would look like, how
it might feel; and I
definitely feel it. and
I am yet here. and all
of what I write here
to you is true (I say
today, anyway; with
a bit of a wink, an
expression of desire,
maybe just a wish,
at some soon-to-be-
embarked-upon ex-
ploration of truth, but
that might be whimsy
or fantasy, I must,
I suppose, confess.)
so I can be thank-
ful, as I try to say to
you as often as I can,
and to show you, by
showing up here,
anyway, to invite
you in, so that may-
be you accept my
invitation, perhaps
take a peek in at
me, here, check
in on how I am
doing, which
sounds nice, if

not a bit selfish,
as I, in prep-
aration for the
opposite of
solitude....
to which I add
with all the
hope that
I can muster
(which turns
out to be
quite a sur-
prising lot!),
although, as
for solitude,
at least from
what I hope
is the butt-
end of it,
I know well
enough to
be thankful
for that, too.

mmmccxxxiii

The Trees and the Breeze
(a composition in memoriam)

I’m missing the sound of the
breeze through trees: huge
elms, sprightly young maples,
steadfast oaks, the lighthearted
sycamore. I hadn’t meant it quite
so specifically as that; it was such
a quartet – an elm, a maple, an oak
and a sycamore – that made up a
sort of alcove into which nestled the
easternmost side of the home wherein
I was raised, making up the kids’ bed-
rooms (one for me and my twin brothers,
the other for my sister). I say that I had not
meant it so specifically because, I suppose,
it is often that I imagine the sound of a breeze
flowing through trees in the twenty-something
years that I have now lived without from within
where I live that specific and consistent sound,
which to me is such a pleasant sound, and one
that, by its very nature, conjures up so much
more than just the breezes and trees of its origin.
And more to my point, it is not a sound that solely
takes me back to childhood. For I have had the
luxury, the good fortune, the pleasure of studying
the sounds the wind co-creates as it is sifted by
a diversity of trees in locations that, were they
mapped, would quite literally crisscross this
awe-inspiring nation. For example, there’s
Jamaica Plain, near Boston in the great state
of Massachusetts, where I lived on a hill just
a house or two down from the Jamaica Plain
Cemetery, which cried out day and night (and
especially night) thanks to its proliferation of
elder arbor over the relatively ancient tomb-
stones and markers it protected; and, of
course, Bowling Green, Ohio (which, I
must admit, I remember more as a
flat and almost barren land, but I
do nevertheless recall, and with
ease, the distinct rustle the wind
made as it blew swiftly through
the spare standing timber that
wintry town had to offer; there was,
I recall with warmth, Ann Arbor, Michigan
(a treed town, as its name so proudly projects),
wherein, especially at night before sleep, I often
heard the sound of the trees as they were swayed
by what would be the chill winter wind (the sound
was enough for me; after all, why would I want to
freeze?); there was, I can recall, just like it were
now, the wind just outside my dorm windows
on Hendrix Campus in Conway, Arkansas;
there was even a medley or two of some
merit that rang through from the solitary
trees of my urban apartment in a pre-
gentrified downtown Little Rock, where
I lived for a while upon graduation; and,
oh, the joyous noises that spring to my
mind as if directly from Toledo, Ohio,
in which I resided for five or six
years and, when ambulatory
enough (I spent years without
functioning transportation in
some of the worst locations
with which to be without – and
Toledo wins that competition
with gusto), I’d go running – into,
out of, through and around – the
thickets of Wildwood Park, often
around dusk. The wind through
the trees in each of the locations
I have called home run through
my head with some persistence
and consistence and with no
small amount of insistence,
and at such varying speeds,
the tunes are as diverse as
there are species of trees,
I suppose (and there are
over 60,000 of these; I
looked it up), as multi-
various as there are
moods (or is this just
me, I wonder). And so,
it’s no small thing this
is for me, to imagine
the sound a breeze
makes as it blows
through an assortment
of trees, or maybe just
through a single, solitary
tree. Either way, it’s a
comfort and a way to
place myself on this
earth and a method
or mode of remem-
bering, which is
always for me so
key, as you may
well know (and if
by chance you do,
you might note
that this is another
of life’s greatest
pleasures, and I
am so thankful; it
is always a comfort
to me, as well, but
today we are talking
breezes and trees),
and now most esp-
ecially, given that
there are no trees
which I can presently
hear out my window,
and it’s been a bit too
long, I’d add, some
twenty-odd years,
as I may already
have mentioned,
since existed any
tree nearby enough
to what I call home,
and so I do hope
that you won’t
mind terribly
my rambling
on at such
length over
the map of
my existence,
as it were, in
relation to that
sound to which
I now can only
imaginatively
listen, of a
breeze as it
whistles and
whooshes past
us and the trees,
with which it in-
variably creates
a collaborative,
and one always
unique, as it
twists and it
swirls around
each tree in its
path; it’s a piece
that becomes for
me, at least, as
the sound that is
built by the two
intermixing alights
upon an ear, that is
either of mine, so
the sound that is
made, the song
that I hear, has
become (is becom-
ing) a moment re-
membered that
just by its comings
and goings it has
composed (creates).

mmmccxxxii

I woke up
for a moment,
this was shortly
before midnight,
wondering how I
might possibly be
able to explain the
TV show Hee Haw
to you. I looked
into the darkness
for just a moment,
rolled over to face
the opposite way
(towards the wall),
and then I fell right
back to sleep.
True story.

mmmccxxxi

Thank You For Existing

I realize that most of us,
our ilk, the human species,
are a superstitious bunch,

but I must admit I’m stuck
and can’t decide whether
this particular omen por-

tends good or bad luck.
So, you know how we’ve
both been a little bit on

the moody side of late?
Well, last night while I was
shopping, I found myself

(as I often do) pilfering
through the bargain
section, and what should

I come across but a book
of postcards wherein upon
each card was a mélange

of words, phrases or adorn-
ments so the each card
presented itself on the

whole as a sort of
affirmation, mood
enhancement, you

know?  Like what you
might find on a t-shirt
or a bumper sticker of

a lady or gentleman who
might best be described
an eternal optimist.

So I snapped it right up
and thought, I’ll just use
these to find a way to

cheer us both up for a bit
each and every day for, I
think, 20 days?  I believe

that’s how many cards
that are in it.  So this
evening I sat down to

pick out the first and
put a few additional
affirmative scribbles

on it, and I figured I’d
slip it in the mail slot
at the post office as

I walked Elise at

around dusk, as usual.
So I randomly tore

out a card and it
was simple and
affirmative, just

as one would
expect, and it
read “Thank you

for Existing” and
it had a bit of
floral décor

at the left upper
corner and the
bottom right.

A bit Christmassy
in red and green,
in theme, as you’ll

of course see on
the other side.
But it’s how I

misread the
phrase that
should have us

concerned about
whether or not we
can keep this little

mood uplifting
couple of weeks
as nice as all that.

I gave myself
quite a fit, I must
admit, as I pulled

the card out to read,
instead, “Thank you
for Fisting.”  So.  Clara.

Should I be concerned
where we may take this,
a rather innocent program

designed to keep us on the
up and up, and twist it into
something unintentionally

perverted?  I must admit,
I’ve gotten quite giddy
thinking about all of

what, ahem, might await
us as we pester away our
grumbles.  Here’s to an

exhilarating couple of
weeks. Your veritable
bastion of chastity, Helen

mmmccxxx

A Possible Cure for
the Heebie-Jeebies

(last night I dreamt of a
spell that is said to rid
anyone who casts it of
the heebie-jeebies –
most of the time; so,
in case you’re of a
need, you are most
welcome to try it*.
It goes as follows:)

Ichabod Crane
Ichabod Crane
Taylor Swift and
Taylor Dayne

Ichabod Ichabod
Ichabod Crane
Taylors Taylors
Swift and Dayne

*(please do kindly let me
  know if it works)

mmmccxxix

a small story
(as a means to begin to
tell you yet a larger one)

aw, would that you’d
come in and have your-
self a seat.  I’d pour you
a glass from this bottle
that I just opened.
if not, we can say
our goodbyes,
my door is right
here. this fuss has me
remembering despair,
a need so deep that a
little bit of company is
not even an option.
but i’m not there,
anymore, thank
the lord, thank the
lord, now i am here,
where I have my
parcel of cushions,
the four walls that
surround my little 

bed, as if to echo

and exaggerate its
existence, beyond
which are the people
I call neighbors, who
live within my building,
beyond which is the city
that ends, too, no matter
which direction I may go,
ensconced as it is within
another particular unit
of acreage or of space,
these extend outward,
as if to emphasize the
vibrancy, perhaps a
throbbing that comes
from the living, from
life, the parameter of
which is the edges of
my bed, my apartment,
my building, my city,
etc., each of these
having one thing
in common, which
is they are home.
my home. my
place.  and
so anything
is possible,
i might dance,
i might sing, i
could create a
work of art or
build something
a bit more efficient,
I might fall in love, i
might fall ill, and I might
then recuperate, within my

space. but why was I going

on so about it.  let’s stop there.
I’m home now.  next time,
perhaps, you might come
inside, I’d make some tea,
you can see the place
I live, and we might
talk about anything,
compare notes,
become friends,
or closer.  I do hope
to see you later.
tomorrow, perhaps?
but goodbye for now,
because now, I am
back, now,

mmmccxxviii

what to do
when your day
is in need of
an adjustment

(how might you
spin a wretched
day that was
supposed to be
so awesome into
anything akin to
what you awoke
at such an early
hour so eagerly
and so heartily
and so needily
anticipating?

well, if you
can bring
yourself to
follow by rote
this simple list
of instructions
it should, I
assure you,
be just the fix!)

first, stand
with your bare
feet planted
on a familiar
surface, like
the floor of
your living
room, for
example,

stare directly
into the face of
the air in the space
or anything there
that by just the
staring can conjure
with imagination
the poison that
thus far has sickened
and darkened an
otherwise robust
and healthy day,

which now that I
think of it shouldn’t
be quite front
center, but at
an angle that is
a bit further left
or right and
also now that
I mention it
do not stare
directly at or
into it
and then

cross your eyes
just a little while
still looking pretty,
of course, but
just for a second,
then,

allow your top
half to bend
like a rag-doll
or a sudden
death head-
first to front
a swoop to
the floor til
your head
wobbles a
little as it
hovers just
above the
living room
rug,

and there
you should
make sure and
hang for at
least a minute,
after which,
and with
your patented
confidence and
magnificently
paced (and calm!)
deliberation,

ever so slowly
begin to lift
that still-
wobbling
little by little
all the way
back to
where it
was all
the while
believing
yourself the
architect of
your very own
creation, as
if rebuilding
your spine by
placing one
heretofore fallen
disc securely
upon the one
below it, and
so on and
so on and
so on and
then you

breathe in the
biggest whop-
ping gulp
you’ve ever
breathed,
breathe in til
the deep of
the deepest
hollows of
the gunk
that rests
just below
the lowest
part of your
lungs is filled
to capacity
with all you
can possibly
suck,

and hold
this gulp in
for exactly
ten seconds,

then let it all
out with the
loudest shriek
that ever escaped
that sizzling moue
and just keep it
coming til all
you can see
is a room so
askew that
the point of
all of this un-
warranted
dismay has
twisted its
cute little
head right
directly at
you with the
most obvious
apology that
you never did
hear and a
fright in its
eyes that just
won’t disappear

hold on to that
gaze for a beat
too long before
finishing it all off
with the biggest
belly laugh you
never thought
your belly might
possibly could
swing, yeah
just let that
belly rock let
it roll let it
heave let
it ho (again,
that’s: rock,
roll, heave
and ho)

and that’s
how your
day gets
a lot more
related to
what you
awoke and
thought
surely was
coming,

yep, that’s
what’ll fix it
up right,
I assure,
then the
only thing
left that’s
to do, my
good friend
is that you
stop what
you’re doing
twist your
neck for
a second
work out
the last
knot or
two and
then

you start
the day
over as
new once
again.

(et voilà!)

mmmccxxvii

Why Fuss with Taxing the Rich, When They’ve
        Already Been Paid So Generously?

remember those “bank errors in your favor” –
from that ever timely (and timeless!) board game
from which we each and all learned the most
hard-won lessons in life, love and the pursuit
of frivolity, materiality and happiness?

I am speaking to you all, of course, about
Monopoly (which should not be confused
with Life, a similar game which, despite most
scientific evidence, has existed roughly only
since around 1860, and on which – and please
do bear with me here as this might also serve
to further imprison us all within said confusion –
Milton Bradley apparently holds the monopoly;

I might add, and you may be surprised to learn

this, that Life, it turns out, is an older board game

than Monopoly), that grand old game that serves 

as a comprehensive and brilliantly appropriate

(please note that this message is being brought

to you from California, a United State of America)

compendium of general educational relevance
for most all of us, and which was owned with 

exclusivity, by the esteemed Brothers Parker

until they were, in turn, purchased by Hasbro

in 1991.*

needless to say, both families, the Parkers
and the Bradleys, thanks especially to these
particular monopolies, are tycoons, which
means that they are among the richest (and
I would add, most generous) on the very same
planet upon which the unlucky remainder of us
reside.

and speaking of misfortune, back to those bank
errors. surely most of you all can recall picking
up one of the yellow cards, the ones in the
Community Chest pile (a nice phrase that holds
a mirror, as it were, toward the veritable brawn
of humanity), only to joyously discover that your
kind-hearted bank, bless the souls of each and all
of its hard-working citizens, had made a booboo
and that you, your very self, and one that could
certainly use an extra dollar or two, too, are the
immediate recipient of the spoils collected from
you by your financial institution in some most
accidental and human error.

(and aren't you lucky, because they have, just as
they always will do, caught said issue, and are
therefore promptly making amends by promptly
paying you back, and with such pomp and general
ado!

well, I have no idea if that actually ever happens,
given my experience, and without doing any
further research

but, and we’re still talking about the game of
Monopoly here, I can, I assure you, relate much
more with errors or fees that are not in my favor

(a prime example is drawing the card, as anyone
might, and as you all most likely have, from time to
time, this one from the pile marked alluringly and
expactantly "Chance," demanding that the drawer
“pay poor tax of $15” (which, I can only assume
is a ridiculously inaccurate number that in no way
accounts for inflation, nor any number of other
related charges that you can bet your bupkis
would be added onto the original number,
should you be experiencing it in, well, real life.)

poor tax, indeed! I’d hazard a hypothesis that
a more representatively redundant pair of words
has yet to be combined.

lest you think that I am speaking from somewhere
outside of my sphere of knowledge over here, let
me just remind (as I love to do as often as it might
come up, no matter how remote the reason) that I
myself all but finished my studies toward an actual
degree in chemistry (and I am not talking about
the degree of intensity of a burn, chemical or other-
wise, here, but on that note will say to please do
always remember to be careful and ever aware with
your bunsens and your beakers out there, boys and
girls!)

and to all of your poor parents out there in teevee-
land, let me just with heart in hand remind you all
that tax day is soon upon us, so I hope you’re well
on your way to getting your ducks in a row, so to
speak, and to mailing away those poor taxes, and
as quickly out the door in as reasonable and as legal
(which, upon present consideration, might be a
bit of a stretch, I suppose) a timeframe as is, well,
legal and reasonable.

and now for a few fine words from our sponsor,
ladies and gentleman: here are the partners clampitz,
pittance and assenfax, with a few more helpful hints
on our poor taxes. we’ll be right back in just a jiffy.

*The history of Monopoly can be traced back to 1903, when 

  American antimonopolist Lizzie Magie created a game which 

  she hoped would explain the single-tax theory of Henry George. 

  It was intended as an educational tool to illustrate the negative 

  aspects of concentrating land in private monopolies. She took 

  out a patent in 1904. Her game, The Landlord’s Game, was self-

  published, beginning in 1906. 

  (from the Wikipedia entry for Monopoly)

mmmccxxvi

Nova Scotia

“Ooh! Ooh!”

“What is it?!”

“Next time we’re
on the phone
together remind
me we should play
Nova Scotia!”

“Ohh kay. . .
And how
does one play
Nova Scotia?”

“K, well, um,
first of all, one
cannot play
Nova Scotia.
Cuz it’s a game.
It requires at least
two.”

“But anyway.”

“It’s so fun
all we have
to do is just
say it over
and over
over again
together
like this:
‘Nova Scotia!
Nova Scotia!
Nova Scotia!
Nova Scotia!’”

[after a beat,
with a bit of
trepidation or
skepticism,
and slowly]
“Nova
Scotia . . ?”

mmmccxxv

excerpted from briefs are best
                       (just to get that out of the way)

the way i mostly think i read books is as a writing tool, like breathing (is to living, by the way): reading inhale, output exhale writing.  it’s okay to forget there are any number of other fantastic reasons to read because all of that happens anyway, so long as i read.  but i am thinking how in this way, the reason, because of which, to write, and on that subject usually not thinking anything through beyond that (because it works, i love doing it, i appreciate output, mine, too, or probably especially, but for different reasons which i also think too much about, but is not what i am talking about here), so, well, it is in this way that i am such a user, and i really think of this, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because it’s true, it is an astute observation i have of myself, and those can be good, too, right?  and that is definitely what gets me to do it, why i’m doing it, reading and writing, this is the discipline for me, it is what gets me there almost every time (and almost always happily), and i am aware of this in a constant way, it is always in here, maybe not at the exact front of my mind but certainly not too far towards the back of it: that i’ll need my fix, and i know that getting it is a must, i am a connection of the moments when i get it, especially because, well, output, which i am at least immodest enough to think of as a means of giving back, even without knowing at all on what level (and, just for the sake of argument, why would that even matter?).  if you’ve ever seen a quote by you at the top or bottom (or it could even be in the middle, so in actuality anywhere nearby) one of my poems, then please know that’s my cognizant appreciation of the immense and intense value of what you give me, which i, in turn, use.  know that what you give me is so big that i am compelled to recognize it, from the tiny stage around and about which i'm so often swinging, as a way to say and show my deep gratitude and as a way to perpetuate your good stuff, there is never enough of it.  the good stuff to be the best and most purposeful most useful stuff of all.  and i don’t just mean this as an advert to lure you over to my words so much, either, except that you’re here now, and of that I am also aware and most appreciative, but also, because, truly, i can only aspire to, or can only hope upon hope, that i might on occasion, or at least once or twice even, get similarly used, and i mean on any level that has any kinship whatsoever with what your good stuff and, therefore and also, what your very presence, your existence, does, has done and keeps doing for me.  so thank you so much.  because when’s not the right time to show a bit of gratitude?  that’s something i never do seem to run low on.  so i do try to express it to you all in the only ways i can see it or the ways i certainly receive it best.  that is an act or a gesture so big and yet so easy that — and i write this as light as i can but in earnest, and with apologies if necessary — even a user like me can do it now and again.

oh a new person a new person
                         —Sophia Dahlin

mmmccxxiv

bigger ideas about smaller distances.

     a. nothing goes first (pay no heed to order)
          I leave my wallet on the lawn
          then my heart changes
                             —Sophia Dahlin

     b. let’s get theoretical and have a blast doing so

     c. let’s make lists to end all lists (with only that goal in mind)

Don’t matter what I’m thinking.

Always on top is that don’t matter.

Matter, then.  All matter.  Be.  Show (Scene) . Create relevance.

Hold hard to one-of-a-kind (not the hardest, by all means not the hardest),

make, do (never make do!), also, connect the dots, stuff like geography, cinematography, poetics, architecture, the mind of any museum (all of them!), diet (living forever!), planets (planetary escalation, planetary orchestration, planetary integration, BALANCE (all times. feel. meditate.), FEEL, foregone,

take a breath take a break feel FEEL

okay, now listen. take a breath take a break feel FEEL

nothing goes without saying.

everything always goes (fine, e.g.: multiverse).

Always.   always.   ALL WAYS.  find them be them all in them all in them always.

only I exist (i) (only) (always look directly at this, it is not

NO ANARCHY in everything anarchy physics is anarchy always remember and look at this at all times.

A line is space within a space

(space is all.  space is open. space is nothing. pace is all.  nothing.)

it’s a living, life.  live live (sound out if I’ve).  live live (sound out I’ve if).

Choice is non-existent choice is existence laugh at this in all ways always it is not irony press hard for pleasure aha press.

What is seen from any point on this path is all beauty but not only beauty and also everything except beauty.  Everything can be seen.  Always.  You will never forget to breathe.  Don’t forget to see.  Memory is.  See and be seen is not.

See and be seen by any means.

some additional tenets:

  1. always be on

  2. pay no heed

  3. all is always.

  4. always is always on

  5. capable of swimming through the impossible anarchy

  6. structure goal do be all see open

  7. as long as you want

  8. (want is all / nothing stops / never is / never does)

  9. structure goal do be all see open close doesn't matter

10. open close doesn't matter

11. open

11. open it up (up is down) (close up)

10. close

  9. i am all.  all are brief.  brief is all.  all is simple.  knowledge is all.

  8. i am all knowledge.

  1. i am all knowing never no always no. no and yes are all and nothing.

Scene.  (end of moving outward to accommodate everything).

Oh yes there is never a need to express everything all is always expressed and experimented (as with open as with close as with open it as with close it as with open up as with close up)

I AM ALL INCLUSIVE. I AM ALL. I AM. I. etc. TODAY

today concentrate on brief.

the brief equation; laws of brevity; endless brevity.

brevity is concentration.

i am was.  born only once.  stop anywhere.  now erase this space. (try!)

this is a good place to start stop.  continue.

THIS IS A GOOD PLACE.  STOP.  CONTINUE.

it is always okay.  this is a good place to stop.

 

continue.  retinue.

all dice move to spaces forward (aha this is a good finish)

Do Not (Ever) [Explain?  Yes.   Exclaim.]

H-O-W T-O S-T-O-P N-O-T

find all laughter (in everything is nothing)

(everything here fill it in all is already)

H breath whispers I is heavy and moves / try it always

Cinder

Block

mmmccxxiii

small thoughts on big distance.

I ask (this is me always asking) how we might hold on to the moment (this is me always responding) and I respond just like how we’re holding on at this moment like prawns slung from rafters their little brain bulb wreaking havoc on the magic of the theater as they concentrate it all within the last few fan fins of their tails which are magically gripping the rafters while hanging suspended but never falling or always falling yes always falling (my answer is their answer) always falling every single moment and I wonder how we

might even hold on to each other from opposing hemispheres (same body you always say same body same body I almost catch that optic that cloak of optimal) I wonder without asking or thinking because it’s trouble you even hear me say or know I think anything but the limitless possibilities (maybe you are the only one who can know, is how you make me ecstatic proclaiming from all distances). only you can only you will it'll be you teaching me, imagine imagine) imagine imagine it imagination is possibility times power times you times me and maybe only you maybe only me I think maybe only you and me and we are all.

even imagine the hundreds of thousands of millions of miles we are my hand from your all-knowing grasp (it is, this is, really, about optimism if not about you or me or anything else in or out of this world or the many, many, many, many worlds of others that float through and toward and between and back and forth as if to taunt me at what’s so easy for them so easy for them so impossible) possible (it’s impossible) probable (hopeful hope and hope and hope) and I watch the sounds and say the words until they come back to eat me (look now, it’s happening) for me and for you (do not include me in this, but you without me? you without me?) mouth of my black gaping cavernous echoing eclipse of a

cradle (a spindle) a cradle! the look you convey is always yes, it is yes and yes and yes yes yes you idiot, like how I am always suiting and contorting for the upping of the anti that is (I literally think) isn’t this when we up the anti (I literally think)? I literally think until I think I am thinking am nothing but exist or exits? exes (axes? axis?

[so now I suit up for the upping]

(or the downing) how can I hear you how can i hear you say how can i hear can i hear you say the upping of the other upping or the downing of the down or the up of the up or just (or just) the upping, look at us, we are never together apart never a part of but all of together (altogether) (always) (always altogether) (always always always) like (I

literally think) how one hemisphere always cradles the other in its long and laving tendrilled trembling still formulating long and laving chalk-dusted loving arms.

like how one hemisphere always gently cradles the other in its long and loving arms. we. master of us. our hearts space. our minds tendon. or minds tend and that, that keeps us we. and keeping we us. and keeping we us. and keeping we us. we must we must we nothing but dust. I will think like you until my head is no longer my head, nor was never, nor ever will be. always always. loving only one: what it is that when combined or put together or kept apart we become, as one,

like how one always cradles the other. like how one always gently unfurls its long and loving always craven arms and cradles the other.

like how one hemisphere always gently cradles the other,

a curl of curds or further softer curls, a soft and incomplete and never finished head of thick and wavy and matter of fact, matter of universe hair. our being it cradles now being a being that can and only the only being that will, like one hemisphere that presses gently the other hemisphere until their hearts their hearts combine into touch and mirror as if to demonstrate all of the extra possibilities that are always left when and as and how and when and

when and how and as (and how!) how one sphere and one sphere are always magically holding each other up and apart and up and at it, how and like, like and how

the one hemisphere is always no matter the cost no matter the risk ever so gently cradling the other in its long and viscous and elaborate and infinite and timeless porous and gaseous and armored and boundless unbounded (no boundaries) arms.

mmmccxxii

also,
this afternoon,
as I looked at the
piles of old photographs
that were stacked on my desk,
amid cellophane envelopes
of all shapes and sizes
from which the
stacks of photographs
had come, after
spending a couple
of hours with mom
trying to figure
out who each glowing face 

in each curlicued frame 

might have been
in 1910, 1920, or 1945,
I saw with utter distinction
and clarity, stenciled upon
one of those cellophane
envelopes, a portrait of
paul newman as rudolph
the reindeer. I stared at it
until I was sure that it would not
simply just disappear and, my
day having been utterly made,
i went about the movements
of the rest of the evening
until i fell then sound asleep,
just like always
on the steps of
what will of course be
an even more enlightening

adventure tomorrow.