mmmcccxi

On the Cusp

Dear Benedict’s
bicuspids were
breaking through
his purplish pink gums.

All he could
eat for weeks,
it seemed,
was custard,

which his doting
mother served up
in the daintiest
porcelain cups.

The scoop was
she’d once been
engaged to
Duke Uspiqua.

And one spring day,
when Cupid’s arrow
pricked, Duke Uspiqua
(or as his Good Cuz

called him, 

Gentle Duke 

Piquard, for 

rumor had it he

was not an Uspiqua
at all, but rather an
orphaned Cusque whose
parents, while our poor

babe, duke qua Piquard
Cusque, was down but
miserably out with
the croup, had both

been murdered during the
infamous Couscous Coup),
well, he but caught that 

love bug mighty good. I

do believe that all this
went down quite directly
after Coxswain Scoux’s
horrific scupper incident,

and all because a bunch
of mallards caused a
ruckus; it was the
most ducks ever

seen in Puget
Sound, or so they 

say, at least but all
at once. Scoux

was cussing up
and down the
Sound for nearly
eighteen months! But

back to the good
duke’s almost-duchess
and her pretty porcelain
cups: Cupid’d cut the duke

but good, as I was sayin’,
and word had it that our
duke was quite the puckerer.
So, anyway, he’d been

waiting in shadows for his 

moment to come, it seemed 

like years when one sunshiny 

day, there it was, our Duke

Uspiqua had an opening.
And so it was then that he
went in for the kill, with that
pucker all squunched-up, but

when he’d all but landed
sloppy with a kiss upon the 

neck of his would-be duchess,
when she peripherally caught

sight of Duke Uspiqua’s sphinctered

lips about to plop right at the cusp 

of her carotid, holy cut cucumber
canapés, I tell you, she cupped

her mouth (not near enough, as it
turned out) and made such a funny
sound, our lady, who was already,
as the duke’s luck would have it,

affianced to Farmer Quince
from Copenhagen (he’s the
one that bought that swank 

canoe cut from the trunk of

a kapok for a single kopeck),
she could scarce contain
herself, in fact, as she
nearly puked (in point

of fact, it’s said that she, indeed,
up-chucked! and no small quantity 

at that!), well she did give that dirty 

duke the loudest slap we’d ever

heard. And that, my friend,
was quite the very end of
Duke Uspiqua’s crush on the
soon-to-be good Lady Quince.

mmmcccx

Oh, Today!

Could it be?

It might.

Not that I
ever felt
normal.

Normal
was not
for me (happily)!

But could it that
my next tomorrow
a regular day might be?

I sound such the sap
but I’m not full of crap
or at least so full as you
might see. Be. Cause.

Could it be?

Who’d even know?

Might it though?

Look at me while

you blow smoke up my ass?

If you’ve got to ask
then just think what
you want, I don’t blow
up your butt just to tease.

Oh, could it be? (Look at me!)

Might we see? (I’ll say!)

One day will come
like a prickly pear!
You’ll stick your poor thumb,
and I’ll say there, there!

And blow it a kiss
something very like this
[and look! there it is just
a’flying through air, making
noises like whiskitty, shishkitty-doo
and we watch as it flies
making curlicues,

shish-shish-shish-shish
goes the kiss (goes the kiss)
shush-shush-shush-shush
a red blur (looks like mush)

moush-moush-moush-moush
coming in for a landing
whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo
i think it just missed you].

What if tomorrow it comes in a way
that is quite very opposite of our today?
What’ll be normal? We’ll hope and we’ll pray
that we’ll be together (yes we’ll be together)
oh we’ll be together (you’re damned right, we’d better!)
oh we’ll be together tomorrow
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
and in such a way that by tomorrow

you know that we’ll surely have forgotten today.

We’ll start fresh, a new normal, tomorrow,
so that what is unusual’s not what’s today,
that’s tomorrow, not this very day, yeah, hooray!

What was unusual will then be just
yesterday (yesterday yesterday yesterday);
all of the humdrum and tragical yesterdays!
From here on out only happy tomorrows!
(No more dreary dismals...)
(Here come the cheery whistles...)

Yes!

Everything’s normal tomorrow,
and happy and carefree and gay.
Wash away all of your sorrow
today today today today.
For soon it will be tomorrow,
normal and happy tomorrow,
having washed out our yesterdays
once and forever

(Washed them all downriver
with baritone)

(Our toil and our teardrops
the rapids they took them
no longer our problems
thank God we’re upriver
oh shouldn’t someone run
to Downriver City to warn
those poor folks that it’s
their turn now to 

sing all the blues?)

(Their turn now,
they’ll be singing forever!).

So let’s hold hands together
and walk up the river the
opposite way.

And so there we went
all right in a line walking
upriver backwards all feeling
sublime. And some say
they heard them up Michigan
way, but could not quite see
where they got to that day.
And some say they heard
them in Canada, too. And
I think that, just between
myself and you, they’ve made
it up north so far, this happy
crew, that they’ve carved up
a whole bunch of cubes of
packed ice and made them-
selves a big tabernacle igloo.
And what do you bet that

each is as warm as a
good heart beating? 

I guarantee you that

they’re still up 

there singing.

And I’ll bet that they’ll
stay there a very long while, too,

just singing the happiest tunes
as they do, while they’re out-
living me and they’re outliving you.
No doubt in my mind, 

I tell you right now

that by far they’ll be 

outliving poor me and poor you.

mmmcccix

Humanity’s Augmented,
Smog-Bent Id

I’m having
a little con-
undrum you
see, trying
so hard to
get you.
“What’s
to get,
really?”
Exactly!
So every
day I am
all up in
your face,
surely in-
vading
your per-
sonal space...
“Uh huh?”
...seeming as
sure as the
nose on your
face to be
Mr. McNeedy
McGreedy III.
“Uh, so you
think that I
think you’re
that much
of a turd?”
Whatever
the case you
must think
me just
selfish,
my one
goal in
life to
mono-
polize
your
every
single..
“Now,
hold it
right
there do
you think
me so
sluggish,
so power-
less, so
incapable
of escape?!
Oh, good
grief, get
a grip,
that’s
enough
of your
lip! Just
this once
I demand...”
You...demand?
I demand,
yes indeed,
that you
finish this
story, what’s
your point,
what’s your
goal, what
the hell,
what’s your
worry?”
All at once,
and as if
they had
both had
enough,
one moved
forth with
a kiss that
was planted
quite rough.
Oh, dear,
I don’t
think I
“Shut up!”
And from
thence-
forth the
two could
be found
always
chasing
each
other
in such
a great
fuss that
to any keen 

eye they would
be but a blur
in the distance

such that one
couldn’t tell
who was who,
just the two
of them, one
never without
the other, a
train with two
cars just on
the horizon:
engine a’puff
with caboose
in tow. But
nobody’d
know quite
which one
was the en-
gine, and
who it was
chasing so
happily
after.
And don’t
you just
know how
the townies
would wonder,
“Who’s the
caboose?” and
“Which one is
the engine?”

mmmcccviii

The Punch Line

He doesn’t call the children
young pups anymore; no longer
does he call them kids. Even when
he jokes (which tends to irritate his
arthritis), for example, “But what
of the youth of Peru?” he’s all con-
cerned, he swears he has to know
not only when but who. If some-
one deigns to answer, he thinks
he hears: “Nobody knows. Who
can say?” Or is it that only the
youth know, and that the secrets
are ostensibly under their protec-
tion, their jurisdiction? It is as it
should be, he knows he wants to
think. The purposes of utterances,
the language given off by singular
bodies and then that can be read
so loud and clear by such a large
and agitated crowd? Voices heard
by soldiers coming at him at an all
too menacing pace? Electricity-
riddled, nearly indecipherable
sounds that come by way of
megaphone? Are each of these
but meant to throw me off? he
wonders, milling about the few
distinguishable crowds. To
throw me off? As if I were a
bloodhound with such singular
focus and with distinct snarls
each of these throngs are none
but criminals who’ve stealthily
scattered all of the gutted or
brained parts of a dinner fish,
that has of course such a con-
centrated, penetrative stench,
so dense I’d learn to eat like
them, my brain so overtaken
by the smells of such a lazy
dinner. I’d use their humil-
iating, metallic sticks and
prongs, I’d sit upright, my
tailbone pressed out flat
into the spot that’s design-
ated mine, and we’d begin
a long and easy feast that
wends its way well deep in-
to the night so that by the
time the last thin bone’s
been licked and my man-
ipulated senses have just
begun to come to, all the
rest of the guests have,
and with assistance, made
their ways down endless
hallways, being led ’round
just enough corners, some
going left, some going right
they’d have no idea at all in
the light of morning, at least
without their kindly servant,
how possibly to get back to
the grand hall. He makes a
quick survey of each plate
still sitting atop the mighty
table; not even one seems
to reveal a hint of what’s
just been done. And then
he makes a whiny run un-
derneath and down its
entire length – there isn’t
even a paltry scrap. It’s on-

ly then that this poor soldier

begins to see a bit, begins to
wake as if from one long
hungry dream. His jowls
begin to wobble this way
and that as he stops and
starts, darts left at just
about the same exact
moment that he darts
right, his eyes all a’fright
as his whine begins again
to be at first but barely
audible until the decibels
they rise along with the
pitch. Yes, only then he
sees the evening’s games
for what they’ve been,
and yet again: a set-up,
a fiendish ruse, that
hellish joke, the butt
of which was hunger,
and not just anyone’s,
his own. Exhausted,
his very bones, along
with those he thinks
he’s just ingested
grow ice cold, the
old whippet shivers
as he then slinks to-
ward a furnace that
is usually, even at
this late hour, filled
with yet some glow-
ing embers. And once
he’s there, a piece of
cloth that had been
hanging from his
mouth, a napkin,
really, he gently
drops upon the
rock surface of
the floor, just on
this side of the
hearth, and then
he lowers down
his thin, emacia-
ted body, eyes
almost already
fully closed.

mmmcccvii

Some Famous Birds

Mother Goose
The Penguin
Toucan Sam
Kentucky Fried Chicken
Culture Vulture
Turkey Lurkey
Swan Song
Foghorn Leghorn
Jailbirds
Road Runner
Dan Quayle
The Baltimore Orioles
Torchic
The Twitter Bird
Tweety Bird
The Red, Red Robin That Comes
     Bob, Bob Bobbin’ Along, Along
Anne’s Hummingbird
Rufous Hummingbird
My Little Chickadee
Björk
Woody Woodpecker
Kitty Hawk
Owl
A Bird in the Hand
Humpty Dumpty
Robin Williams
Ernie the Giant Chicken
Polly
Charlie
Baretta’s Fred
Lady Bird Johnson
Mumble
Angry Birds
Larry Bird
Big Bird
Miss Prissy
Birdman
Blaziken
Cornelius
Robot Chicken
Feathers McGraw
Two in the Bush
Walter Pidgeon
The Phoenix
Coq au Vin

mmmcccvi

And just to think

I had all but gotten
completely over a
harrowing case
of agoraphobia . . . .

It’s not that I mind
at all hiding my face,
but losing touch
with the human race

is such a
despicable
plot kink.

mmmcccv

To Wake and Call Your Name at 4:00 in the Morning

But you, of course, aren’t here. It’s been
over a year and a half, in fact, since I’ve
had even a visitor set foot in my apartment.
I’m having so many random thoughts this
morning. It’s going to be a really good
day. I’m not sure why that’s stuck inside
of my head, along with everything else
that is right now, at such an early hour.
Because it sounds like it is raining out?
Because a couple of minutes ago we
texted each other a few words. Well,
he texted me a few words. Mine were,
as usual, a bit more than a few. For
a moment all of the good feelings I
have about this upcoming day are
wearing with each line that I write
with my pink felt tip Papermate,
which I now notice matches the
circular mouse pad that I use,
and has gold, violet and pink
stipes across an off-white, a
pattern one might see through
a Louis Vuitton window, I think,
or in Goyard, which I think of as
a similar but more colorful depart-
ment store that I’m not even certain
is in business anymore. Stores pop up
out of nowhere when you’ve believed them
long out of business existence, if you’ve (I’ve)
even thought about them at all – but, to
me, they simply cease to exist when
the local store is suddenly shuttered
and I’m left with wondering but for
a short moment before the mem-
ory of it ever being there is gone.
I say these things as if they’re
what everyone presumes, but
these are, as far as I know for
certain, but my own thoughts,
no matter how it might seem
they’d qualify as somewhat
universal. Why it is these lines
are somehow juicing my mood
somehow back up to where
it was at the top of the page
I really do not know, but
isn’t it fortuitous, though?
As the pink ink – and I
can tell you here that there
is a more appropriate name
for this color, but while I can
see that clearly I, as usual,
cannot begin to recall; so what
is there but for me to call it pink,
as the other names I’ll no doubt
never learn – as the pink ink is
emptied from my Papermate
which I ever so lightly grasp,
as it moves from one line to the
next, leaving a more legible than
usual (for me, these days) trail,
the speed with which I do this
ever slower and slower.
One thinks the death of a
close loved one such a
melancholy notion that
it seems we often block
or shield the thought from
our imagination, it’s just too
tragic for us to think it. Or is
this, like the rest of these pink
thoughts, just me? When such
a thing as this hits, does it not
seem for at least a length of
time that seems incessant just
to sad an experience for anyone
of us that is left here to live. Of
course it is that. Of course it’s
one more thing that sitting here
this morning, having just awoken
only a few minutes hence, I am
thinking. And so I pause, for
just a moment not a bit of
pinkish purple ink, thinking
that I must have a mostly
offset perception, one that
is just a little bit unusual,
about the death of ones
that are held dear, and
not just after the dear
one is departed, whether
recently or a long time ago,
but in particular if it’s recent,
in particular someone you or I
may have loved, held very dear,
but all of a sudden is no longer,
is but, as it can be said, newly
departed, the one that was
loved but is now gone. How
one’s outlook, one’s general
disposition must in particular
affect how one might generally
perceive such passing; who can
unfix such predetermined notions,
I wonder, on this cool San Francisco
morning, as I sit in my cozy pad atop
my more and more comfortable bed.
My place, the home, the room in which
I have lived for, now, over one year and
a half, feels so much softer than it did when
I first arrived. How that happens, how a place
changes so irreversibly once it has been lived in.
What seemed like such a miniscule space filled with
such solid stops, such hard-edged corners – corners
that are tucked in here and there and at such solemn
angles; corners poking about, as well, nothing but
dead-hard ends and edges – and yet, look now
at where I sit, with my small, feeling almost
sensual, facing my black, circular fan,
the Honeywell, that today is sitting atop
a box that sits also upon my bed and
it is leaning, the box, and it’s wrapped
in a soft and fuzzy-looking linen, leaning
like, I think, just now, having not had
such a thought about this box, like
the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so that
the circular Honeywell fan that sits
atop the box is almost touching,
right at my face, softly blowing
the air that is in my room into
and around my mouth, my
hair, my nose, my ears,
my scalp and all the
skin my face is
made of, as
I write, the
pink- or whatever-
colored Papermate, wriggling
around in my sort-of-almost grip,
the ink makes curls and slashes,
strides and gashes almost indist-
inguishable from each other and
again, and even slower, has now
reached and soon thereafter finishes
doing so at the very bottom of this
lined page atop a most comfortable
spread, what I suppose would
actually be called a coverlet
right here beneath me,
between my skin
and the sheets
that sit upon
the mattress
that is the
top of my
most comfortable bed.

mmmccciv

The Personality Booster

Did I introduce you to my new
Elephant? His name is
Lawrence. [...] You’re probably thinking how

Rotten I surely
Am to force this creature into subjugation.
Yes, well, I have needs, too. And I’m

Compassionate. The life it led before would
Rip the heart right out of you. I mean. Who knows how
Old a pachyderm dreams of living? But in the
Serengeti, man, life expectancy
Sucks! What else was I supposed to do?!

mmmccciii

The Joy & Happiness; That
Part When There is Pleasure

I think
that it is
time for me
shuffle off
to bed.

Somehow
from then
to now I
seem to’ve
gotten tipsy
in the head.

When was
this then
and how?
What’s
there to
tell, and
truth be
told the
point is
well

beyond
the scope
of what I’m
capable of
explaining
anyway,
as it were,
if you know
what I mean,

and don’t
you? I catch
and lock your
eyes just so
I might theorize
or postulate or
empathize with
such a question.

Was there a
question? It
must have
come from
you, aw, hey,
don’t take a
bit of this in
the wrong
way. Oops!

And yikes!
Didn’t mean
ta nearly,
did I, I
think I
almost
nearly
knocked
you over.

It may come
as quite a
shock my
friend but
often when
you’re holding
the baloney,
and I might
have the

mustard in
one hand if
not the bread
in the other,
that I so often
wanna come
right up with
whatever
might com-
pleat your
sandwich –

your ear
for example
just begs
to be
the oh
so tasty
meat
what’sit
called it’s

really
just
baloney
but oh
honey
[this
directly
in his
ear so
only he
can hear]

morda-
mortal-
MORTA
DELLA
that’s
I’m sure
exactly
how am
azing these

perk uppa
poppa taste –
I mean how
could it mat
ter whether
I am dignified
enough to mis-
pronounce it

when
geez
louise
my god
[she’s got
one breaded
and has licked
the whole peri-
meter of whichever
ear is nearer her]

HOly liverwursted
macaroons!! that’s
EXACTLY how I
knew it had to
WOW, [and
she was gone
and out the door
and dear, poor
Lipschitz’s blood-
red ear was left
between two
quite sophist-
icated slices
of bread 

were just left

hanging there.

mmmcccii

Honesty

Aside from getting the most joy, the most
pleasure, the most happiness out of life and
of being good and decent, the best I can,
doing what I can to make the world a better
place – aside from striving my best achieving
those goals in as consistent a manner as is
humanly achievable (in tandem, which means
no martyrdom for me) – there is one additional
goal that completes the triumvirate of how I
choose best to live, and that is, quite simply,
being as honest, being as authentically myself
as is feasible, in all areas of my life, both seen
and unseen. Volumes could be written, have been
written, on each of these typical human endeavors
of morality, and because things like pleasure, happi-
ness, joy, decency, good and honesty are so subjective,
several additional volumes could be written more just to
provide detailed rationale for what these mean to me.
The same could be said for how each work together
(particularly since they can so often work against
each other), and also how to rank these competing
factions in such a way that they not only do not
compete in any deterrent factor, but rather, if
the various factions of each tenet are prioritized
appropriately, I find that these three rules of life,
or ways of being, as complex as each are, can
complement each other in some profound ways.
I know this because these, along with a continual
effort of prolonged and intense and (ideally) lifelong
engagement with other human beings, work together,
which means of course that I am in my words and deeds,
as often as possible, working with them, are my very
bible, my religion, my spirituality, which, as it turns
out, are areas in which scientific method can be
applied. It is quantifiable. For example, it can
be quantified: the amount, the proper
balance, of effort or energy that I
require, that I need to use, in
order for the specific, and just
as quantifiable, results for
which I am aiming, or
what I need to do in
order to achieve
the results I
desire. I’m not
suggesting that I
am perfect, nor do I say
I am quite mathematician
enough to do any of this any-
where near perfectly. But I can
say that if practice does not quite
lead to perfect, then it gets you closer
and closer to it. These attempts to reach
such lofty goals can be tried and tried,
ad infinitum, and I can therefore get
better and better at determining for
myself what works and what doesn’t,
and inevitably, or at least until I am
no longer in this world (this religion
assumes that some positive effects
that result from my individual effort
will, in some cases, continue to remain
in effect, so to speak, will be perpetuated,
for at least some length time after my
efforts have been completed, which
could mean that some beneficial
residuals may still be around long
after I am no longer a life on this
planet) - so I have no qualms at all
going about these actions, this work
I do towards perfecting these formulae
such that I am continually improving, on
the whole. Now, while I would certainly
love and do indeed endeavor to have
some sort of dialog with you or whom-
ever on this particular matter. And do
not imagine that I am here just to
coax anyone into my way of living.
But for now, this has, at the very
least, been, I do hope, informative.
I really must tell you how fortunate
I feel just to be here, living how I do.
However, I should probably end here
before going into any of the more
nitty-gritty details of how and why
I live this way; how I put it all into
effect, that practice I always keep
trying to perfect. My impetus for
telling you any of this was that
I was thinking about the difficulty
of being honest, how difficult just
that one aspect of this is, how nearly
impossible, even. So I was going to
tell you some things about how I go
about being as honest as is feasible,
being as me as is possible, in actions
and thoughts, whether I am seen
or unseen, as consistently as
I can, at least insofar as doing so
does not in any compromise or tear
down at the other two tenets for which
I continually strive, so long as it doesn’t
cause imbalance in any inordinate fashi-
ion. And the kicker: how best to do it
all in an engagement-forward way. It
all sounds pretty complicated, I guess.
Perhaps it is. But it’s second nature
to me. And, in my opinion, it’s a good
way to live without the requirement for
a belief in something that can neither be
proven nor even seen in any sort of scientific
way. It was the part about being as honest
as is humanly possible or, as I say, feasible,
that got me to writing these particular words,
but instead, what I have given is a very basic
overview of how I try to be best in this life.
And now I am wondering about you, I have
so many questions for you and for you and
for you and for you. Ah, well, there is
always so much to be covered, and
only so much that can. However,
I shall save these and, no doubt,
many other ponderings, for other
up and coming days, shall we say?
And you are duly invited, in case you
are of a mind. You may, of course,
drop by whenever you please just
to see me through these words; and
for such as that you have an open
invitation. I always love to have
the opportunity to show you a
little bit more about myself, in
this case specifically, how I keep
myself check, how I attempt to,
with any consistency, be my
most true self. But as for today,
it is time for me to bid you a
good night and, god willing,
I’ll see you again tomorrow.

mmmccci

So What Now?

I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Wow, what
a glorious ride!” We’ve done
it all, seen all the sites, been
places we shouldn’t, gotten
into such delicious trouble,
some of which would be
lethal to anyone less . . .
Less what? And why are
they at me like it’s a re-
tirement party, a send-
off, a going-away, the
last leg of a rockstar’s
Alzheimer’s tour? This
is truly absurd, I could
write a memoir, I could
learn to speak Igbo, I
could read the Koran.
I could win several
Oscars, I could father
a child, I could run for
an office, perhaps one
where it’d be possible
to find a nice job. I
could cure my anxiety,
I could wind up a guest
on the hottest late night
talk show, I might even
then replace, say,
Stephen Colbert, as
late night’s hottest new
host. I could anchor the
news or become a philan-
thropist, be part of a team

of people who cure some

infamous disease.  I could
run my own cult and make
it ultra-benevolent, or break
a world record, or sail out for
a week in my brand new yacht.
A few short years later, I might
have a visitor who stirs me from
my dream of revenge, the same
one I have almost ever night. It’s
been ages since anyone at all has
dropped by.  I yawn as I wipe the
sleep out of my eyes and I open
the door to a pair of outstretched
arms. Here’s the hug that you
ordered, I can’t but oblige.
As the two of us are wrapped
in the warmest embrace, I
ask him who ordered this
lean back and look at his
face, which I recognize
not in the least. “Here
on my porch embracing
a perfect stranger,” I
say and sort of cackle
a bit. “Well, my dear
man, what’s say we
share a pot of good
coffee,” he doesn’t
wait for an answer,
is all but skipping
right through the
front door, “I’ve got
none but the best,
and it’s usually just
me,” I say, thinking
how absurd it is
to have such a
silly thought only
moments before.
“Retirement,” I
whisper aloud
after showing the
stranger to the
living room sofa,
then making my
way to the kitchen
to brew up some-
thing extra special.
“Just imagine the
things that I have
yet to do,” I sing,
and then head 

back, clutching

the teapot, to 

check on the

stranger who 

currently exists

on my living
room sofa.

z

mmmccc

Ferdinand (or, Some
Business, A Bit of
Spontaneity and
More Reasons
to Celebrate)

Hello, again! Thank you so much
for dropping by. You might notice
that these lines come across a
bit less poetic than usual, a bit
more, there may be no words
to come up with here given
the lines being compared,
but please do go ahead and
imagine this to be something
in real time, a bit more casual,
with gratitude, but just between
me and you, collegial, convers-
ational (Would you like to have
one? I’m very available!).
I do realize now how tricky
it might be to suggest that
this line or that as opposed
to any other might be
less formal than normal,
given that our garbled author,
that’s yours truly, being an
upstanding, that is as far
as up can be stood in such
a place as this, and dutiful
citizen of Haphazardland,
a country or parcel of land
of which he has always been
its humble ambassador, (okay,
its singular resident), you will
always be welcome, you have
an open invitation and, if you
might want a fresh key to this
fine and beautiful city-shaped
parcel or parcel-shaped city,
for your very own pocket, then
please message me and a key
will just that easily be yours.
(Notice, of course, that I have
wandered off course?) And
what a lovely thing it would be,
yes, it would not hurt to have
a bit of company now and again,
would it? I have had plenty of
time to study up on being a
most impeccable host. It
would be so very lovely to
put that research to
some actual use.

That was a giddy prospect,
but I once again got a bit de-
railed, ahem, where was I, oh,
yes. And as for the veracity of
all that I am presently relaying,
well, I can say with some con-
fidence that you’d be most correct,
no matter your answer. What I
mean my dear friends is that
if you feel me sincere, you
think that perhaps I am
pulling your leg, or any
thing you might thing
of me that might have
my truth, my veracity
exist at any point in the
line between those polar
extremes, then you’d,
of course, be at least a
hundred percent correct.
But take it from me, its
mouth, I swear, it’s true, every
bit of it, but, also, and more imp-
ortantly, I humbly beseech you to
tell me in earnest, precisely what
best you would like me to be
in correlation that is with the
messages which I insist upon
getting to you all today.

But in due time, my dear
guests, that’s enough con-
undrums, let’s get on with
this poem which, for now,
I will say is mostly just a
list. What do you think
about that? I wonder.

But first, I feel the need
to remind you each that
all this wondering about
what might this be or that
which has some of us slog-
ging through trying to make
too much sense, well, if you
recall, my message was, I
do hope, quite clear, that
don’t worry so much about
making any sense of anything
because, by the time this
verse gets to you all such
queries will be quaint, and
yet totally moot, for this
verse, each line, indeed
this entire _______ is
whatever it is that you
want to call it, it does
what you say it does,
is what you say it’s called
should you so choose
to call it an it, or say 
that it does what what? 

The choices, my dear,
as to whether this
here bunch of words
is a thing at all is
or at least will
quite soon be
yours to call
(or not). But
just for a fun
and for just
a few minutes
(until I am fin-
ished) I have
just now decided
that I shall call
it, for now,
Ferdinand, and while you’d have no
way to know that I’m scrolling up
to the top of this virtual page right
this very moment to more properly
entitle this piece, this poem, this list,
this _______ so that by the time that
your eyes first meet this pixeled page
you will have already discovered that the
super-title noted has, as far as you’re con-
cerned, has always been none other than
Ferdinand (So how about that?).
I welcome you to fill in the blank
however you please, displacing
all other titles, all other such
names that have come before it,
as iteration if not affirmation of
to whom our multi-personalitied
page-dwelling species rightfully belongs.

Okay, next up is a small order of business regarding
yesterday’s anachronizm, (the one you see next as
you scroll down), because after I posted it I realized
I had perhaps left out some important details about
the poem that might more readily allow you to
celebrate the birthday that is mentioned in the
title. None of this matters, of course, as the
gift, as we know from my all too inordinately
long lecture, is no longer mine, but still,
here are a few things I would have liked
you to be aware of, as I think it just might
have been helpful. So, it should be quite
easy for me to relay. The title, as noted,
Cinema Yosemite, is the name of a small
book of poems that, according to the poem
as posted last evening, turned twenty years
old this year, and this is the truth, and
furthermore, it was my first singularly
authored book of poetry that a publisher
would be kind enough to take that process
to task, that is, to see it through to its
birth as a book. That publisher,
Pressed Wafer, was pretty much my
dear and very missed friend, Bill Corbett,
who was, I would always say, and still do,
like a second father to me, who heart-
breakingly passed away a few short
years ago, and at a time for me
that was so rough that we had not
very recently even corresponded and
I didn't find out about his passing until
it had been months, I believe since
he’d been gone. So as you might
can now see just a little bit clearer,
a celebration of a birthday or of even
the existence of this book is, for me,
synonymous with celebrating life and
work and generosity of spirit, of being
that dad who was already enough dad
to his kids and to so many fortunate
souls who were lucky enough to have,
when crossing paths with Bill, not gone
by unnoticed. He was so very good
like that. And so, presenting that simple
birthday piece to you was not with-
out some small amount of misty-eyed
nostalgia, wishing, as I so often do,
that he were still here. Also, of some
importance, and to clear up its, I think,
unnecessary air of mystery, its every
line was each of the first lines from
each of my poems within the chapbook
of poems called Cinema Yosemite,
which has a bit, to me, astoundingly
just turned twenty. Almost all of the
poems were written within a year after
I moved from one bay area to another,
almost begrudgingly, as it were, from
Boston to San Francisco. It was the
summer of 2000.

It is among the gorgeous slopes that exist
within this city’s perimeter that I have now
lived for the longest duration of this lifetime.
This is my home. And so, please know,
the song is one, for me, of familiarity,
comfort, and gratitude, as well as the
countless other feelings and things I
feel for and owe to this place, my home.

I will quickly just add that, I have also lived
in other places, like Ohio, Michigan, and
Jamaica Plain, with one tiny stop for de-
tour in Oregon, and I spent all of my
years of growing up in Arkansas. So,
home is never exactly one place, and
whatever it means and wherever it is,
is much more complicated than what
I might say about it, and I would
daresay that I am not alone in this
lack, this consternation, this inability
to tell you quite all that there is about
what to me home is in totality, in
abstract; what home is and what it
means to me.

So now that we are all caught up, here is my
silly new list for you for today, which is a few
first lines from poems that haven’t been born
yet (but nevertheless have first lines). In no
particular order at all, and with me a bit wary
at what this might look like when it’s put
all together (but let us not worry, there
aren’t all that many), here we go:

At Starbucks on Clay Street, across
from the Transamerica Building,
four days after Christmas, I
met a man who claimed to
be Meyer Lansky’s grandson.

This one’s just a title and an
epigraph that I am not sure
I am reading correctly, but
the title is: Prince Pence the Fancypants
and the epigraph: Memory is weird, which
I have noted as attributed to Tim Yu. Tim?

This one is only an epigraph, which I have
here as attributed to Francesca Lia Block:
He reminded her of a cigarette.

I’m not going to call this one “Working
Class Dog” because it’s about me.

All she could think to say was
“Love is a dangerous angel.”

This unfinished piece has the title
The Diabetic and its first lines are:
Crashed like an airplane emerging
nosedown from low hanging cloud
at a velocity best described by those
looking directly up at it as “RUN!”

The years were not easy on his words.
Can you imagine?

This is the title: Psychadelic Trip Out of
Nowhere (and fast) to Hell (with a brief
detour through Elysium). It has a subtitle,
too, which is: An International Suspense Tragedy.

This is one that I remember being quite eager
about a week or two ago, that begins:
The bullies
on the balcony
got their
come-uppance:
ten purple nurples
applied liberally
by each sophomore
member of the
color guard.

I had a bunch of
acrostic poem-drafts
for a long poem in which
there would be sets of
fictional groups cross
over into the worlds
of separate fictional
gangs (see for an
example the poem
posted last Thursday
entitled The Ebony
Mask – but here’s
one from that group:

Rescue
Isn’t going well, “Hey,
Demons! Hey
Dickwads!!
Let’s just
Eat
Robin

There are quite a few more,
but I’ll close with some of the
first lines from this unfinished
poem, which I had entitled:
The Mortality Smoosher.

“A buncha bad guys
Came a’rumblin’ through.
It was about the time of
The Superhero Convention."

“Oh, yeah? ‘N then what
happened??”

So much is always happening
that at times it seems impossible,
if one were to try and make such
a list, and I do (I also trust this
likely will come as no surprise
to you). Open yourself up to
the right frequencies (and
these channels are so
bountiful that there are
plenty to go around for
all of us), keep listening
no matter what else you
might be doing, then
when you hear something,
start writing it down, as
much as you can, just
what you hear, just as
you hear it, then once
you have time to look
down at the pages and
pages of so very often
infinitely fascinating
collage, such an astonishing
admixture of words, of just
stuff you pick up, how wild
and how damned educational
it becomes, at times, quite often,
I’ll even say, at least for me.

The abutments, the juxtapositions
of life are vastly entertaining, en-
lightening, to be sure, and just
mind-blowing, if one were to
pause to consider the what
comes next in comparison
to what just came previous,
not to mention the other
infinite directions that to
which one piece can be
cross-circuited, so just as
much from the let it go
where it may, what can
be strictly imposed, a
decision by
you or by me
to take one thing,
then another, then
slap it together,
whether literally
or virtually this
new amalgamation
that can almost always
with some observation
and a bit of tinkering or
scientific or artistic
deducing, deducting,
come out something
so fine that it may
be the foundation
upon which you lead
the rest of your existence,
oh it is so extensive to even
begin to try to define, a process
that can be catalyst to such
sublimity.

Good night, and thank
you all and each, for this
unquantifiable amount of
good stuff! Make more,
why don’t we? Be more,
drop by, read a little,
say hello, tell me
something, how
you’re doing, it
really does not
matter at all what,
but I can say that
there surely is a
good chance that
it will turn out
to be something
so big we will have
just as much fun and
get into just as much trouble
and spend even more time
trying to quantify it.

I’m putting a little
reminder into
my calendar as
I type this last bit.

Gotcha! The reminder
is always – and has ever
since I can remember –
been already there.

mmmccxcix

A Birthday Song for a Small Book
(Happy 20th, Cinema Yosemite!!)


(I want a love)


Eating spinach makes my teeth squeak
at the crosswalk


I cannot draw
The risotto at Caffé Proust


(boredom)


Lady was her name and she was sniffing
this everything comes together scene


monday night i went to see
the san francisco art


(please bring)


When your body brushed against me and I
But nodded off enough.


(when the sky blinks)


(somebody’s welding)



(the sun’s going)




(snowcaps)

mmmccxcviii

Straight from the Gift-Horse’s Mouth

Not being a
meanie, me,
I don’t (at
least not
presently)
mean to
deceive,
repeat,
do not
intend
to offer
up to you
or anyone else
a thing but for
myself. This would
be true (and is) re-
garding pretty much all
you’ve ever gotten at least del-
iberately from me. At least to me,
it generally seems best, as much fun
as a meaty role might be, to present
as who I am not what I want to be
or whomever I might think you’d
want to see. But what to do, as
often is the case, when try as
I might, I am just not gotten?

Perhaps in cases such as
these, it might be best,
even as my every attempt
is to present myself as
who I am (or who I
think I am), to art-
iculate or in some
way enunciate, or
what I think I mean
to say here is to,
with my very presence
and my actions articulate,
enunciate, elucidate the person
that is none other but me, and
once I’m done with that
performance, like any
artist who has just
completed a work,
a piece, I should 

and happily let it go, 

to say, in essence, this
has been a presentation
of me, then turn away and

simply leave, for once
the piece is done,

or stronger still,
what offering, be it

art or be it deed, so long

as it was purposeful, it makes

no difference how much effort it

might have taken just to get a

thing, whatever it might be,

to arrive as thing, a 

sculpture, painting,

poem, song a

novel or a 

dance, no

matter what a

person or some 

persons put into it, 

can this creation by any

means at all even so much 

as exist until it is no more the

giver’s, or the artist’s, this thing,

whatever it might become, just isn’t.

That is until the gift belongs no more 

to him or her or, in this specific case, 

at least, to me, because, as gift

now given (with the flourish 

of a final word or two) 

it now belongs (like 

it, I dare say, or 

not) to you.

(What then

becomes

of me?
you might
or might not
wonder.  This act
has most certainly, 

and in no small measure, 

frighteningly, upped the ante. 

Why, yes, it is for certain that 

each time that I go through with

such an act as this, upon reflection, 

I must admit, it starts very often with 

a healthy, ascertainable case of stage 

fright for, believe you me, the last 

thing I would want to do is leave 

you with a gift that’s rotten.  So,

with most sincere apologies 

if you’ll kindly allow me to 

duck out quickly and 

embarrassed with 

a promise that

tomorrow I 

will at the 

very least 

attempt 

with all 

my best 

to do it 

better.)

mmmccxcvii

The Sore Thumb

It appears
to me, dear,
’less I’m all
kinds of dumb,

that you’re un-
schooled in the
proper use
of your digits.

Good grief,
Sis, I’m
being wicked
legitimate!

Think short,
think stubby,
heck, you
know the ones,

what I’m talking
about here’s
the best use
of your thumbs!

What’s the big
fun with just
sitting here
on the couch,

pumping that
little black
box with
a stick, when

you could
be riding
a truck
driver’s dick

while seeing
the world
and for free,
little sis!?

You’ll be fly-

ing down roads 

ticking state

after state

off your bucket 

of lists, 

oh dear sis,

and all this

you can
do [Maestro,
give me
some drum!]

using nothing
at all save
your two
stubby thumbs.

Did you think

that you had

them there just
for the sucking?

Or for stick-

ing them both

in my face like

they’re sore ones?

Nope!  How 

about using them

just to ride free

to New Orleans?!

Leave it to
me, hon,
I’ll show
you the way.

Trust me,
it won’t even
take half
a day.

Pop your arm
out right at
ninety
degrees,

hang a few
minutes
while catchin’
the breeze,

in no time
flat (on this
you must
trust me),

the trucks’ll
be lined up
behind you
in threes!

Once that
thumb’s brought
your whole world
to a standstill,

just sneak
a few glances
through all of
the windshields,

determine the
best lookin’
driver
you see,

walk to him
with confi-
dence just
as you please.

(Careful, now,
watch me, don’t
slink and
don’t sleaze!)

He’s rolled
down his
window you
lean in and breathe

and say “Hey,
won’t you take
me to Holly-
wood? Please?”

As Tricia re-
counts all
of this
somber story

she holds
back her tears,
how she misses
dear Lorrie,

the girl whom
she taught way
back then, her
kid sis,

how to travel
the world with
the flick of
her wrist.

She never
once saw
Lorrie
ever again.

She’d also
not thought,
at least
until then,

what a teacher,
a mentor,
that she
might’ve been.

She spent
week upon
week and then
month upon month,

feeling down
on herself,
in despair,
all pent up.

But then
when she’d
kicked about
all of the gravel

plumb out of
the drive at
her home’s
front lawn,

she thought for
a moment and
soon she
was gone

to apply for a 

job; and where,

you ask, well, 

none other than

Ms. Minerva’s 

Happiest

Vacations &

Travels!

(Where, my

dear friend Trish,

and quite hap-

pily I’d say, 

has been gain-

fully employed

right to this

very day!)

mmmccxcvi

The Three Witches’ Itches
(A Carnival Drama in Three Short Acts)

Thema the Witch
had but one wish.
[Enter poor Thema
with a megaphone
through which she,
caught somewhere
between moan and
drone, delivers this
bit:] “Hello, I am
Thema and I
have but one itch,
and that’s to be regal
and sit on a throne.”
Then Thema departs
having offered her pitch.

Enter the wretched
Thecla the Witch.
There is but one thing
for which this witch longs,
and if you’ll only just listen
she’s telling you now:
“Oh, to be famous,”
she practically scowls,
“Oh, to be famous
and have my own throng!”
Once that is delivered,
just as quick as she’d
come, poof! she has
exited, she is AWOL,
Thecla’s gone.

Last, but not least,
is our comic relief
(only she doesn’t know it,
the foolish ding-dong!).
It’s Thisbe the clown,
and this witch is renowned
for her true aspiration’s
quite hard to believe.
But she goes about saying
so all the day long (and
this little secret’s be-
tween you and me,
she’s happy to demonstrate
for a small fee). “Thisbe,
come closer,” beckons
Byron the barker. And she
shyly obliges then she
breaks out in song
at a tempo that slows
by the time it is done
to a slow and increa-
singly alluring crawl.
She sings: “Oh, to be
naked," our Thisbe
goes on, singing,
“Oh, to be naked,
except for a thong.”

mmmccxcv

The Ebony Mask

“Dammit,
 Alfred,”
 Robin yelped;
 Time-shifters, 20 to 30 of them, are
 Hovering, their fangs dripping poisonous

 Venom; they are floating just above, circling
 About and around and just over the dying
 Dark Knight.
“Eeeaaaahooooowww!!!
 Roooobiiiinnnnn!!!”

mmmccxciv

All My Friends Live in Other Countries,

          Take a good look
          at history (the American myth)
          check sell out
              —Cedar Sigo (from “Reality Is No Obstacle
                                  A Poetics of Participation”)

to which you might
retort, chucklingly,
“Well, buddy, I’d
look inward,” or
“That sounds like
some real close
friends you got

there.” These
words would be
said in passing
(of course) such
(at such velocity)
that my canned
response, “Ab-
sence makes the
heart grow…” al-
ways at the ready,
is practically (I
mean, I could
turn around,
backtrack all 

crazy-like, so

as to get with-

in earshot)
impossible, since,
words being words,
must by necessity
either be audible or
legible in order to
even be received,
as it were, and
everybody’s
always in such
a hurry, I lament,
nay, mourn,
catching the
rate of my own
gait such that I
nearly trip over
myself, and here
I pause, a bit out
of breath (the
pause merely
mental, as I’m
still walking,
albeit at a
slightly
reduced
pace) to
consider
where it
is that I
was, and at
such full-
throttle,
going.

mmmccxciii

The Last 32 Titles

the throwaway
the rearrangement
The Outlet
The Herculean Task
The Mystery
The Toast
The Drought
The Interview
The Park Bench
The Stump
The Draught
The Grumpy Insomniacs
The Edit
The Ocean’s Mouth
The Humans
The Butch Queen
The Song For Second Chances
The Enabler
The Handoff
The Con
The Misspellings
The Subject
The Big Blue Box of Memorabilia
The Change of Plan
The Pucker That Stuck
the turn of phrase
The New Alright
The Tentative Titles
The Sacred Act
The Night Was Young and We Were, Too
    (and Also Perhaps Just a Smidge High)
The Substitute
The Preamble

mmmccxcii

The Preamble

I’m finding
this morning
that in all of
the imaginary
conversations
that I’m having,
I preface each
portion of
fantasy-speak
with “I really
have nothing
to add to all
that has
already
been so
well said,
however. . . .”

mmmccxci

The Substitute

There is
the nec-
essary
stuff that
must be
accomp-
lished,
of course,
such as 

bathing or
sweeping
up when
the floor
is dirty,
tidying
the bed,
washing
clothes,
getting
a few
grocer-
ies, pay-
ing the
bills, cert-
ifying for
unemploy-

ment once
every couple of
weeks, to ensure
the check comes in
when it’s supposed
to, looking for 

employment:

sending out

resumes,

etc.

Then, there’s the
busybody stuff,
like sweeping
a second time
around, getting
down on hands
and knees to
scrub the
already
peculiarly
iridescent
floor, walking
to the corner
store for a 2nd
or 3rd or 4th time
for refreshments
when you’ve al-
ready got plenty
enough, spending
an entire day just
rearranging things,
everything’s about
as tidy as it’s ever
been, of course.

And there’s things
that I do for no

other reason, really,

than to while away
time, things that,

upon doing them,

give little or no
trace of a gain,

something

good that

can be 

palpably

had just for 

the doing of it. 

In this category 

are long naps,

and the
hour upon
hour (upon hour)

that I will spend 

playing my 

favorite 

cellphone
games.

Also, to what additional
use might a cellphone
be put without getting
at what’s real, what’s
needed, what’s craved
and yet seemingly all but
impossible to achieve under 

such situations as we find
ourselves in these odd
and endless days?
Why, Facebook,
Twitter and
Instagram
seem to
come in
just fine

on mine;
they’re
just the
thing for
feeling more
social than not.
And I don’t know
what all you might 

do with yours, but with
my phone, I can watch
late night television, as
well as early morning, early
evening, prime time and middle
of the night television, which
does seem right smart of it,
until I begin to think of what
it is that I’m really missing.

At the end of the day, I’ve
not had even one visitor,
and the same can be
said for every single
day within the last
year and a half
(Good grief, it’ll
soon’ve been two!).
And, I’ll venture to say
that I haven’t had an
appointment in my
calendar wherein I

have ventured out

to become a visitor

with anyone on the

outside, aside from 

therapist or physician, 

in nearly that duration.

And what is there
to do about that,
you might ask?
Well, in truth,
I’ve no idea
what you
might be
thinking, much

less what you may

be asking.  As
for me, I’ve
had enough of
having nobody
but myself with

which to while 

away the time. So,

what the heck,

it’s not as if

I’ve not already

become quite a

pest about it. . . .

All this I think
as I lie here
sleep-adjacent.

So, who’s up for
tea tomorrow,
you might wonder

. . .as I do. . .

. . .right now. . . 

whether I am. . . 

asking aloud . . .

or just. . .wish-

fully. . .dreaming. . 

. . . . . . . . . . . . .