mmmcclxxx

The Con

It was an era
wherein if one
were to take the
steadily shrinking
perspective into
account, one
might be less
prone to get so
jacked up as the
blips on the antique
monitor get more
and more exaggerated.
Studies have shown
that, whether or not there is a
significant fluctuation in mortality rates,
be they holding steady, declining
or increasing at whatever
grade, steep or gradual,
humanity’s general giddiness,
on the whole, remains pretty
much the same. Furthermore, a
mortal that becomes aware
that it is finite,
by nature, is just
as likely to maintain
its demeanor,
be it elevated (optimistic)
or not (pessimistic) at a
steady rate until the
very end of its
existence as is one who
never reaches such awareness.
The same can be said about humans
with demeanors that have ebb and flow,
no matter the predictability of rate,
and no matter how manic
or how shallow in range, a human’s
general behavior
exhibited before its
awareness of mortality,
should such an awareness be
achieved, has no statistical bearing
on individual outlook
or demeanor after
said awareness.
In other words, true or
false, the very idea
of immortality is, in the
most basic sense,
irrelevant as it
relates to
a human’s
general disposition?

mmmcclxxix

The Handoff

The combine of our past is here
to meet us, just past the cusp of
the future forecast (50% chance
of fair to middlin’; that is, if we’re

only talking mere decades – be
yond that it is left to the fair to
middlin’ people at Forecast Ltd).
The handoff will transpire at

the museum most convenient to
all parties involved (so long as no
party occurs at the museum). We
have arrived at the museum dire

ctly from the University of Vague
Journalism, and just in the nick of
time. The 4 students are all ABD
at the UVJ, a nouveau boutique en

campment set up by Ventures &
Vectors Incorporated, Ltd, to, in
the words of its CEO & Founder,
“catch the media up with the

times,” and was an idea concoct
ed by a bored venture capitalist
one evening less than a decade
previous who thought he might

make the news more interesting
by incorporating standard arc and
plot aspects commonly utilized by
fiction’s mystery/suspense genre,

a sort of laboratory where Hercule 

Poirot meets Herb Caen, if you will.
Worried that revenues were flattening 

at the fledgling university, the CEO

& Founder, who was the very same
venture capitalist who had come up
with the kernel concept, had now
contrived a win-win plan whereby

he’d reverse the trend downward by

incorporating the deep pockets of
the art world, which had become
the lucrative juggernaut du jour.

His lover, Robert, lover of art and
art-lovers, even seemed gaga at
the shady new plan and its pros
pects. When given the lowdown

on the deal, Robert had seemed
a bit unimpressed. But later that
evening, both of them lying in bed
after a rather satisfying romp, Rob

ert finessed his way back to his
market-savvy man, plopped his
head upon the same pillow so
that Robert's lips were at his

lover’s ear, and whispered “any
thing you want, darling, I don't
mind at all, just so long as the
goats don’t.” And in seconds

he was fast asleep, dreaming
giddily of his dear Angoras.

mmmcclxxviii

The Enabler

this character shows up a lot,
and he just has this air of meta-
phorical importance throughout;
you know he’s going to really
tell us something before all
is said and done. right?

i’m not sure how best to
relay this to you. my approach
is, at the moment, improvisational.
for one thing the summation of that
which i am all too keenly aware is
that i do not want to talk about this
guy. i mean, what am i doing?

there’s this artist-type who lives
on what i suppose you might call
a sort of in-between area, where
selfish cohabits with selfless,
greed overlaps with charity,
materialism with idealism (or
any of the number of things
one might assert that the
opposite of materialism
might be), and so on;
for example, a person
who considers himself
a poet above all else might
earn a living working at an
accounting firm, or at a bank, 

or be a brinks security guard in

charge of an atm machine, or work

at an investment company. let’s not

continue to overstate the obvious,
because what I might be getting 

at, and this is just among many other
things that i may or may not be “getting 

at” here (if one were to spend a lifetime

“getting at” things, what might
one be able to say, and with
any amount of satisfaction
that doesn’t border on
delusion, at the end
of a lifetime, should

it have any heft or girth

at all, that one has actually
and finally gotten?  i mean, 

of all of the whatevers at

which one might be trying 

to get?  what can a person

say has been accomplished?  

can one say with confidence

that one has [yawn]

left the world a 

better place

than it was

when one 

arrived?) –

let’s say, for example,
that, and I believe I’m
getting a bit fuzzy, or
tangential (or perhaps

the word i should use

is redundant?) here

(who can say that

fuzzy, tangential

and redundant 

are not the very

triumvirate at 

which i am 

working so hard

trying to “get” over

here?  “did that twisted

wretch just toss us this

crooked wrench?” it might

be appropriately and perhaps 

even more vituperatively

queried), let’s say 

that i was born 

and raised here,

in this place, and
that i have attempted
to follow the rules as best
as i can, with some intentional
and some unintentional exceptions:

would i not be,

simply put, in

almost any

possible

scenario,

given those

few qualifications,

as a general rule, knowing

what you know only from what

you might have gleaned here,

complicit?  might it not

be automatically said, or,

might it even best be rather

said, by which i mean would it 

not be just as good and nice and

easy and even more correct to 

allow it to go without my

even saying, that i am 

complicit?  that i am, 

therefore, and above 

all else, a hypocrite?

so you can see how
exhausting it might be [is!]
to dwell on this particular
character even if only

within the confines of, 

and again, just to

clarify, this specific 

and ridiculously long
and rambling semi-
narrative that I
claim is also,
intentionally,
intensely
biographical
(and do i thusly

have little or no 

need to even use 

the whole word,

autobiography,

in its entirety?),

while also making

absolutely certain,

repeatedly, continually

(and at this effort

almost unsparingly), 

that this is fiction.

like a mantra, as if sung

by the most obvious of fowl,

whose songs or pecking or chirps

permeate an environment and yet

despite the most herculean sleuthery

are next to impossible to lay a naked

set of eyes upon, do you not hear

our dear narrator pecking away at

his “i am here but i am damned 

sure not here, can you dig?”

there’s no real way
for a hippo to tiptoe away

in a pretty or graceful
or hushed fashion, is 

there? 

i do most earnestly hope that you 

can nevertheless begin to empathize
with me and my dilemma, and that 

you might moreover even find it in 

your heart to forgive the 

fact that what i am 

throwing up here 

(both literally and, 

well, literally)

is such a clunker 

that one might wonder

how it made it out of

the factory door (which,

to be honest, in this case,

is not a very proverbial one,

given that this was more
or less tossed out
from the only 

window that can, 

and only with a tremendous

amount of exertion, might i add, be –
but just barely – pried a tiny bit

ajar way up here on the

executive floor of 

our illustrious company’s

international headquarters).

mmmcclxxvii

The Song for Second Chances

I catch myself
singing more
often than
never!

I guess
that it’s
much
better
later
than
never

to catch
myself
singing
today
more
than
ever!

It’s so nice!
(It’s so nice!)
It’s so nice
to see

that yesterday’s
finally not all
that I’ll see!

(...that yesterday’s
yesterday’s not
everything!)

It’s so nice!
(It’s so nice!)
It’s so nice
to see!

[Now go back
to the beginning
and repeat to the end!]

mmmcclxxvi

The Butch Queen

There was so much
to celebrate, so many
places to be, so much
to try, so many dances
to be raucously danced.
But it was already a
quarter past ten!
There were big
decisions to
make, like
what to wear,
how much make-
up, what to wear,
whether to drop by
the pre-party, what to
bring just in case he
decided to go to the
after-party, of course
he’d go to the after-
party, or maybe he’d
wind up someplace
unexpected, one
never knows how
a night is going to go,
he thought, what to
wear, what to wear,
and who’s going to
be wearing it, now
that was always
the real question,
wasn’t it? It tickled 

him to no end to
think such
thoughts, to
know that it
had become
such a game amongst
his modicum of a scene
to see what he might
show up wearing,
what mood he’d be
in, and, always,
what the evening’s
charade or ploy,
in essence,
what the
entertainment
of the evening 
would be, the antici-
pation and, once it’s on,
the giddy participation,
the delight, the fun!
And all of it simply
because he had arrived!
And yet, he never really
understood why, or what
the big deal was, about
who he’d be from one
evening to the next.
Because, to him, that
was not even a question.
Sure, he played at
enjoying the attention,
reveling in it, in fact.
But wasn’t the notion
that he’d be anything
but his own pure self no-

thing but a construct, given
that no matter how late
for the ball he was, no
matter how hard a day
he’d had at the office or,
if he were still there, no
matter how much longer
he might have to stay, nose
to the proverbial grindstone,
no matter who was over for
company, no matter who was
over for fun, no matter with whom
it was he awoke of a morning, no
matter if there was no one there
but himself (and Fifi, of course,
she’d always be there, that thought 

had him grin one of his wide-eyed 

grins; some wore their hearts on 

their sleeves, it’s true, but he wore
his on his lips), the one thing
that remained absolutely con-
stant was that, through every
bit of it all, he was who he
was, he knew who he
was, and he lived his
mostly very pleasant
and happy life know-
ing at least that much.
Sure, he was 100%
Gemini, there was
no mistaking that.
But… “Oh my God!
It’s 10:30! It’s time
to jump into overdrive!”
And with that, he began
to quickly glide toward the
bedroom.  But, once there,
as he was just about to pass
the vanity, he stopped hard,
turned to face it and leaned
in, using each of his palms
to hold himself up while taking
a long glare into the mirror.
“But, honey, it’s true,” he
breathily declared, looking

himself right in the eyes, 

“your lips really are divine!”
And then he disappeared
quickly into the closet to
get ready for the night.

mmmcclxxv

The Humans

frailty, fragility,
puke-y ad nauseum
times infinity only no!
ack! hock! sputter!
we is merely mortal.
we is not infinity.
eat, drink, excrete,
repeat: drummed
numb dum-dum.
butchered, bound
and drugged like
bleeding bags of
processed meat.
and horriblest of
all, of course, is
that we’re all be-
jinxed, accursed,
to get but teasy,
mean, bedeviled
glimpses of such
glimm’ring app-
aritions that bind
our eggy, achy eyes
like opulent oases
to our craven hearts
and hungry brains
with adamantine
stitches to set us
after a nirvana that
just about as soon
as we can almost
taste we are ass-
iduously obliterat-
ed, incinerated or
otherwise stricken
or eradicated.
one by one
and each
by each
we then get
scooped indel-
icately up and driven
down a ways til out of
sight (at very least) in
prettied limousines or
gussied up hearses.

mmmcclxxiv

The Ocean’s Mouth

How

Sleep

the

Rush

Isn’t

!!!

mmmcclxxiii

The Edit

change “Clonk”
to “Dink,” change
the ampersand
to “’n” and the
first letter of
the next word
from “D” to “C”

in line 10,
“all by”
becomes
“alone amongst”

later (this
is crucial!),
“define” is
to now be
“divine”

consider adding
the word “content”
in short measure
after the first in
stance that the word
“context” appears

“ditzy . . . enmeshed”
to “dizzily” (remove
“to contextualize”)

change “the now”
to “the past” – duh!

the next “context”
should be “law”
then switch “law”
to “order” (or vice
versa), after which,
add a semicolon and
(for context, of course)
“rank and file over content”
(et voilà, we now have “content”)

make “Greg” “Margaret”
w/in paren.: “point taken”

change “forget” to “remember”
change the following period to
a comma (“B” obvy to “b”) and
“One hundred percent” [sic]
to just “(100%)” and also
“boy did I ever” to
“fuck if I didn’t”

the next “was” should be “am”
therefore “Omigod they work
like you would not believe!”
should follow in parentheses

decide whether or not
“Just like usual”
should stand on its own
and add “Peanuts.”
after “…circus?”

mmmcclxxii

The Grumpy Insomniacs

Things that harrumph
in the night.

mmmcclxxi

The Draught

It hadn’t meant
to be preliminary.
And inasmuch as
that can even be
said (as if the con-
glomerate of words
themselves could by
any means attest)
it wasn’t meant to
be at all. And yet,
there it was, just
lying there, in fact,
in all of its primitive,
non-essential and
illustratively in-
complete glory.
Had he, perhaps,
made a little note
to himself to come
back again tomorrow,
or at least at the soon-
est? It isn’t as if any-
one were actually left
wondering.  But from
what had, unremark-
ably, been left behind,
not even the slight-
est hint could
be gleaned.

mmmcclxx

The Stump

The preacher
always looked
so much larger
than life during
the sermon. This
is what Jonny tells
his big brother one
Sunday afternoon,
and it was met with
one heckuva loud
mess of Jeffy’s
all-over-the-place
laughter. Which is
pretty contagious.
So at lunch the
boys annoyed
the poo-hockey
out of their folks;
even the twins,
their kid sisters,
said to hush it
up. So the
thought about
the preacher
being so gigan-
tic disappeared
completely from
Jonny’s head,
all the way, at
least, until the
following Sun-
day, when right
after the service
was finished he
got an odd-look-
ing “Cummere,”
out of his big
brother, pract-
ically pulling him
out of a trance,
and he was hop-
ping and skipping
to catch up with him
as he took off down
the aisle toward the
pulpit, so that Jonny
said “What is it??” a
little bit too loud, and
he sort of ducked his
head into his chest,
a bit embarrassed as
he made his way to
catch up to the front
of the church where
Jeffy let out a loud
whisper, “Lookit!” and
pointed all sneaky like

down under behind
the pulpit to right
where the preach’d
be every Sunday all
red-faced at his ser-
man and . . . larger
than life. Two cinder
blocks, one on top of the
other, were tucked neatly
up inside the little hidden
shelf at the very bottom.
“Larger than life,” Jeffy
let out and just burst out
laughing ’til he was all
crouched over, and soon
enough, Jonny was, too.

mmmcclxix

The Park Bench

I’d had no idea it was
foggy before I stepped
out some thirty minutes
previous to rest on the
bench. I suppose there
were two benches. At
first I sat under the
drooping yellow bells,
breathing in the intense
so sweet you’d think it’d
be sickly aroma of the
bells, which were looking
a bit haggard, had seen
better times, the trees
always seem in bloom,
have been there for a
few years now, but as
I sat, facing the trad-
itional department
store, under the can-
opy of the browning
yellow bells, a gentle-
man kept approaching
my bench looking for,
he said, his wallet and
his torch, which he’d
just lost. I could cer-
tainly empathize with
his loss, but I was al-
ready a bit anxious
from the rush of get-
ting out and about be-
fore dark, which I only
just barely did. I fussed
around a bit with my bag
of snacks, which I’d just
purchased at the pharmacy
on the way to the square,
got everything situated in
my backpack, and stood
up and walked around to
the more open part of the
square, sat down on a chilly
but empty bench that had
a panoramic view of the
city’s upper scale shopping
district around me, wonder-
ing what I might have to say
about what I saw, how I was
feeling, what I was thinking,
the people, mostly masked,
walking to and fro across
the square, some at more
of a diagonal, in essence
walking from intersection
to intersection, and others
would walk more parallel
to a couple of the streets
that tucked the park into
a square. Although it was
the heart of dusk and quick-
ly darkening, given that the
glorious and surprising fog
had come in at some point
during the evening, breaking
what had been a week-long
heatwave, for the first few
minutes there were still
presumed tourists, or
just people like me, who
who would pause to snap
a photo of the commem-
orative monument that
rose high into the air
and up into the sky from
the center of the square,
or of themselves, or of
each other, before mov-
ing along on their diagonal
or horizontal or vertical ways
to wherever it was they were
going. But within what seemed
like no time at all, maybe twenty
minutes, my thoughts still a swirl-
ing and unsettled admixture, it
was as dark as night gets in a
square that is nestled among
brightly lit department stores
and hotels. Which is to say, it

was as late as I had intended

to stay.  So, without really

accomplishing the goal that I
had initially set out to do (it
had, I suppose, been an hour
since I first ventured out), I
leaned forward and rose from
the metal bench, which I had
only just warmed a little bit
during my visit, and I turned
in the general direction of
home, and began my walk
back, where, once I’d ar-

rived and settled down a 

bit, I set about typing this

to send to you at a decent
hour. I hope it arrives with
good cheer, peacefully and
pleasantly, and that it brings
you a little something that
catches and stays, perhaps
brightening or enlightening
your evening, or morning,
or your afternoon, as such
efforts can sometimes, on
the best of days, yield. I
am, as always, indebted;
and yours truly, signing off.

mmmcclxviii

The Interview

“I am looking at
your resume
right now.”

“I am looking
at my resume
right now.”

“Good?”

“Good.”

“Okay,
I will call
you again
tomorrow.”

mmmcclxvii

The Drought

The rumors abounded.
Alli says “Your portfolio
is reeking.” He is spot-
ted by several civilians
on different dates skip-
ping about town at 3 in
the morning. He vows
to give up the pen, to
stop reading entirely.
There’s “nothing new
under the sun,” he pro-
nounces, as if afresh –
this, overheard by sev-
eral trusted sources in
various Sunset dives.
The boulevard is a
dry sponge. What a
pill this all must have
been to him: the head-
lines, the apostrophes,
the disavowals. The
city grew unsanitary
while he – I heard –
had grown fond of
welts. With what?
It’s how he took
them, you know?
He really took to
it, too. He buried
his entire wardrobe
at the compound. I

hear that it was quite

an extraordinary

ceremony.

mmmcclxvi

The Toast

Hello, everyone. How about
we all gather around here, as
I’d like to propose a toast.
Let’s see [he closes his eyes],
this is where I always seem to
muck things up. [he opens his
eyes] Hello?! Excuse me, I’m
just trying to round folks up –
not sure where everyone went,
but they must be around here
somewhere. After all, where
else would they be? Oh – one
moment – I think I see a few
of them right over there. Yoo
hoo! Over here? Haha, I’m
always trying to get their at-
tention, it seems. It’s been –
seems like years that I’ve been
trying to get everyone to just –
yep. Those are, indeed, my
friends. Hang on [takes a
few steps in any direction,
puts his hand over his eyes
as if to shield them from the
sun]. Oh for Pete’s sake.
[he nervously titters] It’s
certainly a good thing that
we’re all friends here! I try
like mad sometimes, I really
do. Oh. I can see them now.
A few. Yeah. Well, it does
appear that there are those
who are within earshot, so
how about we get right to it.
Ahem! I’d like to propose a
toast. Oh, everybody! Oh.
EVERYBODY!!! I’m hearing
noises. Do you hear any-
thing? I think I – but no
one. No one seems to
be coming our way.
Don’t they know
that they’re about
to miss the roast?
Well, I do suppose
that we can begin
without them, as
they’ll be making
their way up at
any moment
now. A toast,
I say [he raises
an imaginary glass].
Oh, no . . . hey . . .
where’d you go?

mmmcclxv

The Mystery

Mary doesn’t like her picture taken.
At family events, she loves to bring
this up, tell everyone all about it.
At the table this year, there was a
box that looked as if it had been
just painted a dull shade of yellow

by a very thick brush. Mrs. Hampton
kept referring to it as her “golden”
box. “Can you park it a bit further
down, and a bit further in, perhaps?”
She had everyone bending over back-
wards, especially over this “golden”
box. It wasn’t a “gift,” we were all
told, but it might be a “receptacle.”
And this year, Karla, that’s the dog,
I guess she’s a small boxer – a min-
iature boxer – all beige, she is, and
this year, Karla hobbles. And it’s a
pretty dramatic hobble. There is
hardly a fuss over Karla’s ailment,

and for some reason I find this in-
credibly disturbing. So I can’t take
my eyes off of Karla. She’s moving
around a lot, but the poor thing is
so slow and so particular and you
can see the pain in her big, black,
bulbous eyes. At one point, Mrs.
Hampton catches my glare, sort of
lifts my gaze away from the dog
and she gives me a long, hard look
of “But what can be done?” I really
have a strong compulsion to answer
her with a look that says, well, I ima-
gine a lot of things, really, just ask
a veterinarian, I’ve seen some pretty
astounding contraptions. Anyway, I
keep straying from the subject, don’t
I? Mary, as I mentioned earlier, she
simply despises having her picture
taken. But I, just as I have for, it
has been a few years now, have
come up with the solution to this
rather awkward dilemma. Yes, I
happen to know that Mary loves
a very particular, and I must say
quite costly, Beaujolais. “Hey,
Mar,” I chime to her, she’s on
the other side of the table, we’re
all standing at this point, “Mary,
would you like, perhaps, a small
glass of Beaujolais,” slowly lift-
ing the bottle, label outward, of
course, from its purple shimmery
bag. She absolutely lights up,
bright as a marquis! “Oooh,
Herbert, I would looove some,”
she says, over-extending each
vowel, loud and clear as a bell
that she most assuredly means
exactly what she is saying.

mmmcclxiv

The Herculean Task

All of life
(all along)
against the
barbed wire
fence. We
live in a herd
community
where pigeons
are “comic” and
pheasants aren’t
(peasants). So,
you’re going to
glare at me all
cock-eyed, are
you? Here we
are, a herd of
cock-eyed glares
and barbed wire
incisions. “Who’s
got the mop?”
You’ve probably
never even heard
of a herd whose
mop comes
from Sicily.

mmmcclxiii

The Outlet

Here I sit,
beside my
nightstand,
where Harry
Styles covers
Vogue. I like
this, my clean
publishing para-
digm, don’t you?
There I sat, all
brokenhearted and
pistol-whipped, eating
a mango, mid-hallucination.
It seems like only yesterday
that we were spooning on the
rent-a-couch, trying to watch an
episode of Night Court, each of our
cans of peaches were awkwardly agape,
having been so clumsily opened, and were
sitting on the coffee table between us and
the graveyard makeshift court of law.  We
talked well into the night about that summer
we both worked in factories: yours mass-pro-
duced pincushions; mine, little girl vanity sets
that were almost as large as life, depending,
of course, on the actual size of your little girl.

mmmcclxii

the rearrangement

unbeknownst
to the page,
the words
had some-
thing to
say, and
it was imp-
ortant that
they said it.
except the
words got
mixed up,
rearranged,
opted out.
of life.
which is,
above all,
a comedy,
right? aw,
you just
think I’m
none too
bright.
brains
aren’t
every-
thing,
though,
are they?
or at
least
that’s
how I
see it;
every-
thing:
overly
comical.
and why
not? to
summar-
ize, if it’s
not the
hours,
not the
days
that
are
tra-
gic,
then
what
is it?

mmmcclxi

the throwaway

got at it,
did ya?
boy,
don’t I
know it
all too
well.
but
here’s
what you
do, take it
from me: do
whatever it is
you normally
do to wind
down the
day, say
prayers,
hop in
the tub,
get the
coffee
ready,
set the
alarm,
just
what-
ever.
then
you
plop
your-
self
right
down
in bed.
fluff up
your pil-
low, tuck
yer own
damn
self in.
and then,
off to dream-
land you go.
got that? I
certainly
hope you
do. nighty
night, now.

mmmcclx

broil

bring it to
a simmer.
remember
that it did
not have
any taste
the last
time.
don’t
have the
spice you
feel you
need to
get it
right?
just
use
what
you’ve
got. no
guaran
tees, but
come on
…it just
might
work.

mmmcclix

Getting Down to the Truth

I have been famished. I’ve been
utterly and despondently ashamed.
I used to ask for my eggs over hard,
but I’ve eaten them runny, and they
were just fine. While I’m not entirely
certain what I am saying to you here,
I can say for certain, with apologies
as it were, that it’s not about hunger.
Allow me, if you will (and you do,
gloriously, you do!), to take you
on an adventure. For years, I’ve
had this thing: I’d drop my friends
off, by ones and twos, etc., with a
tour guide. It was a beautiful tour
that lasted no more than a couple of
hours, and while there were different
guides at different times of the day, it
was the same exact tour each time, and
every time I’d go along, too, a tourist, an
audience member, just like my friends, ex-
cept I’d been on the tour countless times be-
fore. There would always be a nuanced differ-
ence or two, but I’d hear the same stories, we’d
traverse the same route and, with some adjustments
for the season or for the changes that occur in nature
on a regular and constant basis, we’d see the very same
sights. And each time I would be just as curious and just
as interested as I was at every tour previous to the present
one. Except I was as equally interested in observing my friends
along the way, seeing how each took to it, while also listening to
the guide, curious about the sights and the stories that went
along with what we saw, and all the while I’d be snapping pho-
tographs, making little mementoes of the occasion. What exact-
ly am I saying, telling you this, besides the surface of this one
diminutive anecdote? I wonder. Am I simply more interested, in
general, in being a participant than being a guide; am I more
of a climber than a sherpa, more student, less professor? Or
perhaps this aspect of me that I have just relayed to you
reiterates my geminian nature, revealing how I am so
often driven to be both and neither, all at once. I do
believe that these things are true about me. In fact,
I can say with confidence that they are. And I would
happily, were you even the least bit willing and inter-
ested, take the time to further elaborate upon these
truths about me, would of course be curious to hear
what you’d have to say about these propensities and
listen to where you think you generally reside on
such a spectrum; it’d be awesome to brainstorm
with you to come up with a list of the pros and
the cons of each of our respective ways of being
in life, and to collaboratively come up with ways
in which each of us could take this information
and use it to better our lives going forward. I
can envision a discussion such as this going
well into the night, perhaps all the way until
morning, as we branch out on various related
(or not) tangents, relishing every minute of
it and, upon parting ways for the night or
the day, feeling filled with life and awe and
questions and camaraderie because of it.
I should probably tell you, though, that
this isn’t really about any of that. I
believe that I am, in actuality, at-
tempting to illustrate here for you,
that the reason I brought this up,
is that with all that I am – which
is the sum of all of whatever it
is with which I am made up, and
that makes up me, I miss those
tourists, and I miss those sage
guides; I mourn the presence
of each and every one of them,
and am so very grateful that I
not only have had the serendipity
to have crossed paths with each and
all, but that on so many occasions I
had the wonderful pleasure of going
along on every small journey, every
moment of which was a gift that stays
with me, buoying me up every single day:
to have been along for the ride with you.
It has been pretty much everything, and
so I give thanks, in my very small way;
it’s the best way I know how, for now.

mmmcclviii

a swear bath

if you was
wond’rin’
where it

was our imp-
pish brother
was, I can

tell ye. he
was out all
day down't

the creekbank
just a catchin’
crawdads, he was,

yes, under all the
lightnin’ n’ thunder.
round about seven’s

when paw
whistled dinner
one can ascertain

purt’near anywhere
in town (and most
places out of it)

with that
whistle.
it’s his cattle-

call, too, that
high shrill pitch's
louder than loud

but brother was
down at the creek
with the crawdads

and somehow
hadn’t heard it
either of the

seven times
or so that paw’d
chirped it all out.

they finally
found ’im
n’ had to

drag him
kickin’ n’
screamin’

all the way
up’t the house.
after that he

had to wait
the thunder n’
lightnin’ fore

he could
even bathe
n’ boy’d

he need a
good dousin’
he smelled

n’ all the way
to the high
heavens n’

him swearin’
a’ left and
swearin’ a’

right. and
paw’d have
naught of it,

nope, not
one bit
of that.

so now he’s
finally in it,
and not even

supper, nope.
nothin’ but just
up to his ears

and eyeballs
in a swear bath’s
what he’s in now,

n’ half the
town can
hear him

up there a
screamin’ n’
a hollerin’.

mmmcclvii

& also, what a bore. . .

      (Not in pharmacies) it went viral.
                            —John Ashbery

It all starts off pretty innocent,
somebody sends you a pill in the
mail. The next thing you know,
you’re a hotshot with an endless
prescription pad. We love to fill
in the blanks like they’re Mad Libs,
“Tonight I’ll have the [squishy]
[starburst] that’ll have us all
[slurping] the [zeitgeist] all
[schadenfreude].” “Roughly
half of my ancestors were
German; the rest from every-
where else. Interestingly, the
German side of the family wasn’t
rough at all.” He won’t stop hocking
ptooey: everything’s “zaftig” this or
that on the autobahn, he’s endless
Mercedes and BMV only it’s “Bay Em
Vay” as if he’s got something stuck in
the middle of his throat and he wants
to get it out; he’s spat the word “fahr-
vergnügen” at least four times in the
past thirty minutes alone. He’s invited
us to a costume party and is trying like
mad to have us wondering about the
equipment he surely has downstairs in
what he keeps calling his “underworld
studio.” Is anyone fooled by any of this,
I wonder, or is it just that I’ve skittered
around a bit too close to hell for the last
half dozen or so years, as optimism got
whittled and chiseled away to reveal the
fun-loving character with the reputation
for slapping around a little bit more than
just a bunch of pretense now and again?
It used to be such torture hanging with
the sycophants. But these days it’s
about as riveting as the gaping
maw of a really long yawn.

. . .yet there it is, anyway.

mmmcclvi

uh, turf 8 tong

(for the boofday
urch & oonf
at 8 oh 8 today)

hippie hippie
boofday ooch!
you diss serve

isbee goals müch
id lotsa lub id
lotsa hooch

idol sew
diss whompa
Proust im-

bue Camus
amp umpy art
some big ampule

aye, dude
éclair dough
chewed he’d

squerve a
hugga 2 so
yugo hampy

date pea ewe!
itch youf itty
foe tea tooth!

(eh, mini, oh!)

mmmcclv

There Was an Explosion.

There was an
explosion. These
things happen. I
was new to the place.
It was a place, that’s
what was new. And
there was an explosion.
I was going to be a writer.
It turned out it happened most
nights. At least for a while. There
was an explosion, and this happened
most nights, for a while, so I wrote it
down. One night when it happened I
had a guest. It scared “the livin’ bejesus”
out of him, that’s how he put it. I said it
happens. Quite a bit. Just one. Just a
magnificent bang, like right out the one
window, and then nothing. ’Til maybe
the next night, anyway. He was here
the next night, too. It scared the
livin’ bejesus out of him again
but not as bad as the night
before, he said. I said “Exactly!”
and wrote it down. It was something.
Those explosions. Something that was
happening. Something that felt tragic
but wasn’t. Something to write down.
Something that sort of situated us,
that gave us something to bring
up, to talk about, to discuss
and wonder over, that didn’t
have much in the way of cons
equences, except it got our hearts
maybe going a little bit faster and gave
us what they call a thread, a piece of string
to hang on to, together, so it was a connection.
We’d had those before, tons of them, even, but
speaking for myself, they’d all been disconnected,
every last one of them, so it was those humongous
kabooms that came at one or two in the morning, what
sounded like big hollowed out bombs that went off right
underneath the window and echoed way out into the city
heat of the otherwise silent summer night for what seemed
like a couple of minutes, ’til the sound of the two fans, one
blowing on each of us because the room was always such a
hotbox, it was like an eternity until the sound of the fans
came back to being the only thing we’d hear, and for the
rest of the night I could not even sleep, not after an ex
plosion, neither one of us did, as it turns out. I’d allow
my eardrums to come slowly back down to just
that little fan, I had it on the bed with me,
it was a steam-bath, still is, doesn’t
matter what time of the year,
here in this room, this place
that’s mine now for over
a decade since then,
those explosions
long since gone,
whatever they
were, they
quit happening
by the end of the
summer, they did. But
when you’d hear one, it
was a big enough thing that
it would literally bring you back.
No joke. It was huge enough that
it’d shape life out of what had become
unrecognizable. That’s how big of an ex
plosion it was. For both of us, I’d say, or
at least I think it was just as significant for
my friend. But I didn’t see him again, not once
after that summer. Things were starting to get pretty
weird, for one thing. I mean, for one thing, he bilked
me. And it wasn’t like I had much anything to take, but
whatever it was, he took it. He took it all. He had this
motivation all of a sudden, and that was new. So he
took me for all that I had, which again, wasn’t much,
but boy, did that ever charge me up. And then:
gone. Like he never even existed. By then,
though, I was back, too. I had life. I had
reasons. I would wake up all early of
a morning, feel the blood pumping
very particularly through my insides,
and before I knew it I was up and I was
doing things. And we never figured out
what it was that went off nights, I
have absolutely no idea, no idea
whatsoever. But something
sure went off in me that
summer. Something I
could not contain. And so
I’ve got nothing but gratitude
for whatever it was, those un
godly explosions, nothing but
a huge amount of gratitude.
Maybe it was all in my head,
knowing what I know of me
then, but that doesn’t even
matter. All I know is that I
am here, and that this is
true thanks, perhaps,
to something that’d
go boom of a
night every
once in a
while that
long ago
summer.
So, were
it not for
those
explo
sions
. . . ?

mmmccliv

“Oh, for Heaven’s Sake!”

If I were to strip down
to just my nationality. If
you were to reduce me to

the most revolting buzzword.
It’s like two punchlines walked
into a bar wearing polka-dotted

parkas. “Did one of them happen
to be Dorothy Parker?” you ask,
all innocent-like. “How should

I know, you naughty boy,” I
reply, “let’s try it and find out.”

mmmccliii

I Heard a Little Pop Between 

          the Zoom and the Boom

          (a pop song)

first verse:
you say that you’re a space ghost.

             (you’re a space ghost.)


and that is what you are to me.

                             (so dead to me.)


you say that’s wicked holy though.

                 (that’s holy-moly, whoa!)


but, hon, you don’t like rock and roll.

                  (I never mock you, though.)


and I am on the up and up!

          (my hunny hunny pup.)


yeah I am on the up and up!

              (I’m so cool with you)



second verse:
so whatcha gonna do with me?

                           (my hunny hunny bee?)


say bzzz you got me up a tree!

              [bzzz’]) (you are my fairy queen)


so whatcha gonna do with me,

                         (da-da-da do with me?)


cuz I can make it if you lea’!

           [with sarcasm] (oh please don’ lea’!)




the chorus:
I don’t give a junk about the death and destruction.

                                              (de-de-destruction!!)


yeah I don’t give a bup about it.

              (I can do just fine without it.)

              (watch me do it; nothin’ to it!)


No, I don’t give a cluck about* ya death nor destruction.**

[sung in a round] *I don’t give a huck about death and demolition.

                        **you don’t see me blowin’ up the moon, do ya darlin’?


you’re good as gone so get out witcha!

                  (we don’t give a feck about ya!)


we don’t give a buck about your death and dissolution.

                                           (that’s our solution!)


so baby figure outta whatta be a yer position.

                                         (you know yer itchin’.)


how was I to know that this was whatcha gonna mention?

                                         (it’s a bitch, innit?)


we don’t give a fuck about death and destruction.

                                                         (do ya function?)


we don’t give a fuck about death and destruction.

                                                              (I can’t hear you!)


we don’t give a fuck about death and destruction.

                                                        (said do ya function??)

                      [from a distance] (yeah we function!)

                [so far away it’s barely audible] (so fuuuunk off!)

mmmcclii

Seaweed and Chandeliers

What we have here
is nothing but a bunch
of lopsided days followed
by Gunga Din. “Jesters,
all of you?” queries dear
Jessica (she’s a cheese-a-
holic, it should be noted). O-
therwise, “Don’t burn it
before you sift it!” Now
that my shift’s finally
over (I’m told it was
only then that the
shit hit the fan),
everybody grabs
their colanders,
per these here
instructions,
and turns
quickly to-
wards to-
morrow
(shielding
the faces of
strangers with
their respective
sterling silver
strainers).

mmmccli

Uncle Doctor Randall Weaver

Always dapper, but almost
always pictured seated, which,
dapper and seated, always an
elegant combination, or it least
one that worked well for the
good doctor. In this particular
photograph his left leg is crossed
gingerly across his right – lady-style,
one might say, or upper echelon-style,
or just comfortable in his lanky elder-man
body-style – his circular specs have circular
attached shades that add a further layer to
the sexiness of this septuagenarian man-
about-town with an eggplant-shaped face
that sits not quite but just above a bowtie
that conjures a quickly slashed felt-marker line
(of perhaps half a centimeter here), and is precisely
parallel to the high waist-line of his long khakis which,
in turn, run parallel with the wooden back slats of the
porch-swing upon which he sits or, more accurately,
he’s pictured here sittin’ on a porch-swing. A front-
porch-swing, much like what I used to swing upon at
my grandmother’s (he was her uncle, as well), back
when I was a child. But would that I knew such
grace in this body of mine. The dapper doctor’s
long – and lanky, just like the rest of him – left
arm sits along the top of the swing to his left,
its elbow rests just over the top on the other
side. Follow the arm further and you can
see its four long fingers crooked right in
front of his left suspender, like a hand-
fan pointing leg-ward, but only his thumb
is at the suspender, unseen, yet apparently
holding it in its crook, just away from his white,
pressed oxford, as if to allow his heart a bit more
liberty to do its rhythmic thing (the siphoning swell,
the quick contracting whoosh, the tick the jerk of it
makes and that can be felt). These are mechanics with
which he’d be well acquainted, and intimately, being,
thus far, the singular medical practitioner in these parts for
the entirety of his adulthood. I imagine him letting out the
subtlest of exhalations, his version of a sigh, and proclaiming
to everyone and no one at all, “It’s a right pretty day, I reckon.”
And who’d refute Uncle Doctor Randall Weaver, who was
always on the verge of saying “I do declare!” And any
soul who’d hear his declaration would be hard-pressed
to disagree. Any passerby (and there were always
at least a few) would, upon getting near enough to
see Doctor Weaver sittin’ on his porch-swing’d
greet him with an “Evenin’, Doc Weaver.” To
which our distinguished gentleman, my great,
great, great uncle, would respond by lifting
his long fingers from his suspender, gently
taking the tip of his fedora between his
thumb and forefinger for a split second,
then relax his arm back down upon
the swing and drop his fingers
back to his elastics, where
they’d remain until the
next pedestrian’s
earnest greeting.