mmmcccxlii

“...civilian unrest.”

    It was “so fun” getting used to you.
                             —John Ashbery

Debates we used to believe we’d
pick up another night. Coming
soon. Let this be a warning to
us all. The whole world is out

to get us. Never had we
sounded more true to
ourselves. A few of
us wouldn’t sound

again. We always
assumed such
drudgery’d
prevail, but

yet it turns
out what ails
us is what we
also ignore the

most. What per-
fect hosts we were,
however; or else, I was.
Once. Isn’t it ridiculous to feel

so astonished at what we always
saw coming? Several years later, I
convinced myself that all of my elegance,
my grace, had finally returned. And full throttle;

back like gangbusters. But then, “Thud!” Up pops
another “act of God” so cataclysmic that mere fatalism
just won’t cut it. Perhaps, instead, apocalypticism? Seis-
mically inelegant, how clumsily we lumbering humans roll!

mmmcccxli

Cross’ Theory of Stars
Crossing Like Two Ships
                   (not a hypothesis)

     Do you have a favorite magazine?
     Do you consider yourself left-wing?
     High maintenance?
                               —John Ashbery

Maybe. Yeah. Well, without the wings.
And , , , no? Who cares, really? The
talkers won’t listen. The listeners
never get it. If there were that
rarest of exceptions, we’d be
nothing save star-crossed.
Plus name any measure
of distance. I mean,
were you actually
there, and you
actually were,
I’d then
ask for
a very
large
number.
Which, if put
together would
equal the only hard
reality that exists. I mean.
Hypothetically speaking. As if do.
Living it. Being it. Breathing it. Abhorring it. [Y A W N ! !]

mmmcccxl

Gawk Fodder

     Yes, it’s you I’m talking to.
                 —John Ashbery

Worst insult this side of
Texas toast. Your do-wop
daughter’s my Kurt Cobain,
caught in an interlude, receding.

We hung out at the hangar,
hung up on the thread with
which we were hanging on,
not making a lick of sense;

the world, too, was blinking
in disbelief. Shaking their
trumpets and all of their
singed, pyramidal Cyclops

at the universe was
every last dollar, incensed.

mmmcccxxxix

Motorsauce

    Get up and laugh, investigate or communicate. It’s only your future after all.
                                                                                              —John Ashbery

They finally found the forest,
entered awkwardly into it.

But they weren’t out of the woods just yet.

mmmcccxxxviii

A Toothy Headache vs. A Heady Toothache

                                          As dirt is to the floor,
     which is more than can be said for some people.
                                                   —John Ashbery

Is it aching
while you’re

sleeping?
Does it

ache while
you sleep?

I will sing if
you will let me.

Let me please                                                                      
be your relief.

I won’t ask you
(this I promise)

if it’s age or
if it’s youth

that’s at issue
with your head,

dear – I misspoke –
is it your tooth?

If I sing, I’ll do it
gently, but a smidge

(or two) off-key.
Will it wake you?

Will it ache you?
Oh, my dear,

are you asleep?

mmmcccxxxvii

The Cookie Bastards

     Removal costs said, in a statement:
     You don’t need to survive.
     Just existing would be enough.
                                  —John Ashbery

how to work with
frustration and not
anger and headache,
not plural because i
don’t want them any
more, i rarely get them,
it’s a diabetic headache,
right? i’m not going to
tell you the reason i’m
buggin’ so, because that
would just make me a
comedian. just reiterate
the obvious, right? just
say right. hours later,
after t-mobile, after jay
leno, after checking out
the secret folder, after
not sending out one
single resume , , ,
well, i hadn’t eaten.
not only have i not
been setting foot
outside of my apart
ment, but when i
start scrounging
around, trying to
figure out what
there might poss
ibly be to eat here
in my little coffin
sized hotbox,
well, then what
do i do? i start
organizing. cans
here, bags there,
individual packets
over here, and there’s
even subcategories:
canned vegetables,
soups, sauces, etc.
the point is i’m a
diabetic now. the
point is i’m lazy.
the point is i was
having too much
fun sitting here
writing this,
talking to the
man, watching
the interview
with leno, the
half episode
of grace &
frankie and
the good fight
and kimmy
schmidt,
and, on imdb,
which has sucked
for years now, am i
right? same with the
tomatoes. success will
utterly fuck you! but,
still, on imdb, going thru
every single show – every
movie, every television movie
or series or special, every variety
show – that lorne michaels ever had
a hand in, from coneheads to the show
i’m now about to watch: season 1, episode
6 of the other two. scratch that, sidetracked,
first i’m finally going to zap one of my diabetic
dishes, the fresh frozen meals i get delivered for
free once a week, and then? then i’m going to sit down
and watch the thirteenth episode of orville, that’s still
season 1, or so it says right here. nothing fancy.
i mean. i suppose what i could be saying here
is that the point is there is no point.
and yeah, that’s what i just said.
with my stubby, heavy-jointed
fingers, from me to you.
come back again
tomorrow,
woncha?
;-)

mmmcccxxxvi

If These Walls Could Talk!

     Finally, alone.
          —John Ashbery

“I get it, you don’t have any
time because of what?” “Work!”

“If I were to stress eat, like
on teevee?” “Zsa Zsa Gabor!”

“With an ass like this and a
kitchen that won’t quit.” “Not

quite – give me a moment – Ms. –
Mrs. –” “It’s Mister Klemperer.

At least I think it’s Mister?”
“Darling, it’s just been the

two of us for how long now?”
“I think in terms of movies.”

“Sequels? But why not teevee?
That’s where it’s at. That’s where

it’s been for quite some time now.”
“Half a dozen years behind, remember?”

“I think it’s seven or eight.” “Mad Men!”
“Well, considering there’s only just

the one of us talking, I’d maybe
reduce it down to the singular.”

“You never told me you were single.”
[Head drops into hands, a common

sign of desperation, not madness]
“My new year’s resolution was to

stop monopolizing the airwaves.”
“I’m not sure that worked out

very well for you. . .” “New Year’s 

Eve, my fortieth. It’s just that if I

get going on a subject, it’s a bit
hard to wind it down.” “You

mean the madness? Or the
despair? Oops, It’s a quarter

past. My wife’ll sprout another
snake if I’m not home by eleven.”

“Off you go, then!” “I know
darling...I really do.”

mmmcccxxxv

Remembrances of Low Hanging Fruit

     In these situations
     I’m trying to figure out what is going on.
                           —John Ashbery

Doc’s putting the
finishing touches
on the upright piano.
It’s expected to live. We
all are, wouldn’t you just
know it! Doesn’t it make
you cough to think that
Kafka was telling it like
it is? I’m not battling
all of the humor, I
swear; I gave up
feelings long ago
for things like
poise and tousling.
How not to finger
through Herb’s
hair when it’s
so hungover.
Doesn’t that
remind you of
the same thing it
reminds me of? 

I swear I’m not
just being gamy,
but, since we’re
back to expectations,
I mean, even well beyond
fraternities past, there was this
code, this easy way to tell, it wasn’t
just the gossip was it? All the men of,
well, not just Cleveland, either, but, and
yeah, it was certainly an artist thing, but
we all just knew the bang. But now we all
hang around clucking like we’re rolling a tiny
tart spoonful of melon around and over and under
out tongues, and yes, lemons, melons, limes, even
apricots are trending like Fire Island archery and the
pulverized bones of Plymouth Rock, but Charlie, dear
Magnolia, we’ve lost not only every rotten sot whose
inclination it was to show up on our porch step with,
along with all of the accoutrements, a rather twisted
bunch of bananas, but we no longer score even one
member (sigh, member!) of the banana brigade. Oh, 

to be young again, and to gang around with all of
those swung hunks! Where’d they go? Whatever 

happened to them? Don’t say a word about
a funeral, Spike. When you’re too old to 
remember how fun it was not to care, 

but not quite old enough to excuse 

oneself to the Dairy Queen for one
of those provocative milkshakes.

mmmcccxxxiv

Arborville Bids an
Abrupt Adieu to
“Hello Dolly”

     bee sculptures
     fiber building
     car surgery
        —John Ashbery

Reginald thought
better than to
wonder aloud
how many
savages
there were
to salvage.
When you’re
stuck in an antiquated
novel (akin to, e.g.,  Little Women,
Animal Farm, Catch-22, The Catcher
in the Rye), he’d always found it best
to skew expectations.  He wondered for a while
how weird it was that people even had expectations,
there was always so much skewing going on.  But try as he 

might, every moment nevertheless seemed more predictable 

to him than the next.  How could that be?  he wonders, darting 

back and forth like a madman or a manic lobster, sidestepping, 

taunting, catcalling, he’s just learned how to whistle at ear-

shriveling decibels; but no amount of herky-jerky, no sum 

of crazy-looking fits and starts, body crumpling, ballerina 

moves or fanaticism seems to furrow even the greenest 

brow. All is taken in stride. And he’s exhausted, decides 

to fuck it all, put on some Bermuda shorts and shimmy
down to Elmville Station and finally and once and
for all hook himself up onto the caboose,
all Houdini-like. That’ll show them!
he grumbles, utterly incensed.

Uh oh,
as if speaking to a
two-year old, but really
pitching the gibber-jabber to
no one in particular, Reginald’s
had such a lousy fill-in-the-blank, gooses Alice.

And that was the last that any of the company
and crew ever saw of Reggie Plouffender again.

mmmcccxxxiii

The Rookie’s Beside Himself:
A Prophetic Aside (in Jest)

     The only furniture is when I can’t.
     The garage home fitted yesterday perfectly.
     The irony is it just doesn’t stop there.
                             —John Ashbery

Oh, to be a flea,
stepped out of the
scene, or a fly, or
a guy like me, in
a topsy-turvy
world that isn’t
just tragic. That
maybe melts your
heart a little. That
could be now, if now
were not so ,,, now.
What I’m trying to
say is how deft
those now dead
old hands once
were. These?
Well. Can’t
you just imagine?

mmmcccxxxii

Robin’s Geriatric Hood

     What do you want, John? Informally, a
     new body, and an assistant.
                                 —John Ashbery

Did my blood sugar gain
Erase your
Losses? I keep

Remembering you
At twenty-two,
Yellowing around the gills,

Closing all the doors,
Robbing the rich to pay the poor, always
Out of
Sync with
Synchronicity.

mmmcccxxxi

No Contact Boxing Match Ends in a TKO

     Almost tonight, let’s not and say we did.
                                         —John Ashbery

What is foreplay
but oodles of
TEASE in such

a scenario

as a long-

distance

romance?
Who’s on
top without

contact? Can’t
penetrate without
the glove on (or

in). So the gloves
are off! Again,
dispense (with) 

the impossibilities.
Forego the ob
vious, true or

false? Let’s
forego the
obvious,

true as it is.
I think it’s
time I knew

your address.
But, as a guess
timate: 4,501

miles. Wait,
isn’t that
written as if

the onus is on
me?  Hm.  7,244
kilometers...wait!

Isn’t that written
...onus on you?
Fine, then, and

don’t say it’s
only fair, as
nothing could

be fair here,
buddy: how’s
3,912 nautical

miles? Nobody
can call bias
on that number;

nobody’s stuck
with the onus.
Except the both

of us. An onus,
something that
given the circum

stances might be
said fives times
fast (an-onus-an-

onus-an-etc.)
so that it might
generate a

tingle, albeit
still a hypo
thetical vibra

tion? If we were
(and again, every
thing’s so impos

sible, so,
hypothetically,)
on the bridge of

the Starship
Enterprise,
and Cap’n

Picard were to
say (if we were
there but for

a short while,
surely it’d be):
“Make it so!”

I’d say, “Yes
captain!” And,
oh, a few short

minutes later,
“and by virtue
of the authority

in me, vested by
the Federation. . .”.
I get so giddily lost

in such a fantasy
spaceship romance
that I don’t even

notice you leaning
toward me slowly,
that is until our

noses are almost
touching. My
temperature

rises an instant
5 degrees Celsius
(so that you will

get it) and my
tears well up
as I just know

you’re going to
say “I do.”  Our
noses, at 2 inches

or 5 centimeters
apart, about the
width of a baby

tribble. My nose
being nearly at your

nose, a moment that

begins to happily
freeze, and then
you say, just so

that I can hear,
“I think I prefer
to see it lubed

when you’re
getting off.”
3,912 naughty

nautical miles
suddenly van
ish, the sci-fi

non-proposal
non-wedding....
I see.  So this,

you might think,
is what long-dis
tance “lovers” do,

how such a
thing might be
kept real, or,

(excruciating;

all-out wacko,

if you ask me)

at least be
kept just plain

naughty-call.

mmmcccxxx

Sonnet 4 Mister Sensory Unimpressed

     Meanwhile I was pleasured.
                —John Ashbery

This wd b
sooo funny
whir it not
tyranny.

Boo hoo,
how un
true. Plz
kindly

GIMME
SUMMA
THAT! Eh,
huh? [Screams] I am

summon,
summit!!! [Sob!!]

mmmcccxxix

You remind me of you.
            —John Ashbery

I remind me
of the famous
Abbott & Costello
punchline, I don’t
know. Who?
First base.

mmmcccxxviii

Crackpot Hijinks

     Meanwhile the Repair Act languishes.
                                —John Ashbery

What other
are there?

Cotton,
see-thru

plot.
Under

where?
Howdy.

“Wel
come

to the
family

tree,”
he says

next.
There’s

a whole
lotta

hold
nose

in hand,
hawk,

hulk
harder

going
around

lately,
or is it

just me?
Hawk

honk?
Snooze

dare!
It is.

(Just me,
I mean.)

mmmcccxxvii

S’tale Ail’s

     Off you go then.
         —John Ashbery

step out
for an
air cola

no hum
cucumber
just a

slight whip
gone a sec
not even

stilts
still
work

not a
flicker
look a

round
in gulf
around

three
dee
bubble

inna
middle
a now

a no
where
but finds

if some
sum
anybody

fine
stilts
atilt

awhirl
a whoosh
i wish

but not
a bit a
fog not

a bit a
pulse
save in

my inner
airy ear
a thump

with
out
a whir

a move
without
a groove

a mid-air
no air
nowhere

mmmcccxxvi

Noblesse Oblige

     The clock is running over, and an octopus wears my wallet now.
                                                                               —John Ashbery

bleak
as a canyon
made of parsnips

poised
as a potato
ready to be scrambled

with
all of the fragility
of a dull gray carton

if
your chef’s
side-hustle is pugilism

and he
brings his
professions to the Sahara

a
carafe
of Humpty Dumpty

is
poured
upon the sand

with
panache—
there is no sizzle

but
behold:
The Pacific

mmmcccxxv

Not to Mention the Vegetables

     Less remarked on is the mask-laden buffet.
                                     —John Ashbery

wake up. first
off, is it morning?
it’s morning, he
thinks. is it?

check map hue.
checking color
of map to see
where it is

darker, to see
where it is less
dark, ah, it is
exactly the

same. how
could that be?
look again.
take a nap.

dream a little.
did we dream?
who’s in?
who’s out?

take another
nap. awaken.
lie there for
a bit, trying

to imagine
the weather
on the other
side of the

wall. this
wall? yeah.
impossible.
to guess,

i mean.
check
smoke.
check.

check
smoke.
weather?
check.

where are
the fires
today?
not here.

here it’s
just smoke.
and heat.
and smoke

and heat.
smoke heat.
lie prone
for a

little
while longer.

mmmcccxxiv

That is the day we shall meet. I hope to heck it comes soon.
                                                  —John Ashbery

Etymology becomes rotund,
experimental, exhausting,
existential; curiosity kills
more than cats. Take
the weather, for ex-
ample. When all
of the chill fog
became an I
Remember
poem. How
much longer
until it’s I Don’t
. . . . Then there was
the what, the Upper Mid-
Western Pandemic? Names
of wildfires. Name that cat-
astrophe. Were it not for the
sequoia smoke, but there would
have been our very own naked lady:
Lady Ghirardelli, despite the misbegotten
namesake, still half god, half diva. But for
the choke of the smoke and the death of the
breath. This world belongs only to itself. In the
beginning was the world? How was I to know? #cawx

mmmcccxxiii

Librettista Patetico

     Hold that opera—you made the lyrics.
                                   —John Ashbery

Grandmama.
Diorama.
Malinconica.
Melodrama.

mmmcccxxii

Virtue Signaling

     There, I’ve said it.
          —John Ashbery

The sound
of the big
black box

was intox
icating,
thought Cheryl.

It doesn’t matter
for sixteen entire
days before it mat

ters once again.
The humpback whale
in that film with Björk

and her art hubby,
yes, was all about
whale sex, from

the very beginning
all the way to the
bitter end.

Soldiers! March!!
My gun is on
your tripod

feeling very in
secure. Our
bluebird,

who art intestine?
Plagued by digestion?
Flu dart in heaven?

The state of nation.
Swingdom, shower,
whory. Assert

Nutter
Butter
Band.

mmmcccxxi

Oceanography

          I’ve been meaning to pick up a bag of lettuce on my way home.
                                                                         —John Ashbery

hang on i’ve
gotta get
lost in this.

there. that
doesn’t feel
terribly safe,

now, does
it? is goal
achievable?

why, i already
feel lost, and
come to think

of it, is that
really what
i’m asking

for at pre-
sent? for
words to

be drugs?
to be the
drug?

am i in un-
charted terr-
ory, yet? map’s

glitches what
we’re looking
for, here?

nuh uh.
i know
my gen-

eral vicinity.
it’s just that
in relation to

anybody it’s
got nobody.
like valium

to vertigo,
thinking
it’s gonna

be just the
sauce for some
swagger, when

instead, it’s got
me curled up
into a knot

riding the
floor like
a wave,

crying
out for
gravity.

all too
literal.
so may-

be the fog
isn’t exactly
the smartest

safety net
(forgive me,
my blessèd

city.). may-
be a trance
is more of a

dancefloor
aspiration,
maybe

deeper into
the dark
forest

isn’t the
right
direction.

concentrate,
eyes up, off
the feet,

stand up
straight,
still...is

this better?
i’ll not
blaspheme

the sooth-
ing fogroll,
but as it

lifts, i can
instead
rejoice,

focus,
get to
know

what i am,
gather my
bearings,

pause, set
coordinates,
and only

then,
move
forward.

mmmcccxx

The Scientist and the Bloodhound

     ...we have zero years left to avoid dangerous climate change...
                                —renowned climatologist Michael E. Mann

    The climate is pretty.
         —renowned poet John Ashbery

Of course, this’d be
all your fault! Can’t
leave well enough
alone, can you, Spike?

Curiosity killed the cat,
you numbskull, or hav-
en’t you heard? I say
we hop in that private

jet of yours and head
straight to one of the
poles, it doesn’t mat-
ter one bit to me which,

up or down, you decide,
and we’ll go camping, on
the down-low, just like
we used to do. As al-

ways, I’ll cut the holes
and you’ll make the
harpoons. One of us
had better learn how

to roll sushi, and
pronto! Or, well,
okay, sashimi.
At least we’ve

already a metal
detector some-
where in the
airplane. But

now for the
tricky part:
how the
heck are

we going to
land this thing,
maybe a para-
chute each and

a sleigh? a
pontoon? I
say we bring
an extra para-

chute. No more
dilly-dallying, do
you hear?  Let’s 

get a move on!

mmmcccxix

I found out where I probably was last summer.
                                        —John Ashbery

Fish Camp, California (Tenaya Lodge)
Ina Coolbrith Park
The Marina District
Forest Hills Cemetery
The Seine
The Sapporo Super Dry Tower (top floor)
The Centre Pompidou

Detroit
The Pacific Ocean
Fort Chaffee
Tallin, Estonia
The Baltic

Ridgecrest, North Carolina
a biergarten in Cologne
Hortus Botanicus Amsterdam
Treasure Island (4th of July)
Angel Island
Benziger Family Winery
W Hotel, Sunset Strip
Zihuatenejo (on horseback)
Fisherman’s Wharf (freezing cold, July 1981)
Bowling Green, Ohio
Sonoma
Great America
Copenhagen

Anza Vista
Siloam Springs, Arkansas (church camp)
Russellville, Arkansas (band camp)
Conway, Arkansas (Boys’ State)
Camp Orr (Boy Scouts camp)
The Manteca Inn
Denver Colorado Motel 6
Saginaw
Boston
Boca Raton, Florida (not quite summer)
Carlsbad Caverns
Devil’s Den
Eureka Springs
Tontitown, Arkansas
Dogpatch
Dallas
Ann Arbor
Provincetown
Ogunquit
Little Rock
Saint Louis
Stockholm
Bourbon Street
Memphis
Buckingham Palace
Montreal
Puerta Vallarta
The Atlantic Ocean

St. Petersburg, Russia
Pinnacle Mountain
Mount Magazine
Mount Tamalpais
Lindsay, Oklahoma (w/Aunt Geneva & Uncle Vearl for 2 weeks)
Lake Tenkiller
Darby Lake
Potato Hill
Nob Hill
Telegraph Hill
Russian Hill
The French Quarter
Booneville
Lavaca
Paris (Arkansas)
Notre-Dame de Paris
The Louvre
Jardin des Tuileries

mmmcccxviii

A Few Snippets from Conversations

That Were Spoken in English and 

Overheard at the Pachinko Parlour

          A de-happening.
                        —John Ashbery


“Me and all of these televised news segments!”

[There is a long pause where only the sounds from the pachinko machines can be heard.]

“I’ve been having such vivid dreams. I guess I was a television journalist. There was a competition, which I was of course winning. It was called Get the Lead Out, only instead of ‘PB’ lead metal pronunciation like the saying, it was lead pronounced LEED like headline or news lead. Now who gets that creative in their dreams?”

“Sorry, man.”

“Huh?”

“I think I just woke you up.”

“How are you?”

“Tokyo sucks, man!”

“Whatthefuckareyoutalkingabout??!”

mmmcccxvii

Takes After His Momma

     I think I should stay . . .

     Cross-eyed sonofabitch . . .
     He liked him, he could tell.  A de-happening.

                                                —John Ashbery

[a little note out of character:

this silly little ditty seemed

pretty spiffy at around 2:00am

when i thought it was complete.

unfortunately, however, the entire

thing reverted back to the original 

and very rough draft.  i shall repair

it after some sleep (another little

note inserted into the out of character

note a day later: it really was a pretty

great piece after i spent maybe an

hour and a half editing it, at least

it seemed to me to be, but i dunno,

perhaps i will fix it back up in the 

morning).  in the meantime, now 

you know that what you see here

in the latest, at least these days, 

are works in progress.  yes.  editing. 

imagine that.  but boy was i ever

miffed!  sigh.  onward.  and back

into character . . .] . . .

I don’t know quite what to
tell you my friend. I don’t
know much more than this.

You’ve driven us over the
cliff, my good man. We’re
nothing but one pair of stiffs.

I can’t yet decide how to end this
old chap, with a hand grenade
or Russian roulette, perhaps?

We’ve tread upon this very
tundra, you fool, at least ten
times since Sunday night. I’d

settle this now with a duel,
stubborn man, but we’ve
just a grenade and one pistol.

Whatever the case, we’ll be
dead, it’s for sure, by mid-
night’s historic penumbra.

We had that one chance with
your friend, Gunga Din, who
offered a ride and some petrol.

But you shrugged him off,
you dumb jerk, yes you did!
Our chances right now are

abysmal: in the daylight
the sun scorches more
than the earth; my skin

is one gigantic rash and
get this, I’ve third degree
burns on my genitals. But

at night, oh, dear God,
it’s as cold as a curse,
no, it’s worse, I can’t

breathe, and my nose
is so chapped it’s come
all but uncapped, a

hiccup or sneeze,
heaven help! Would
not only be dismal but death!

This is it! I am gone!
Jesus wept! Mary swore!
Look at me! Out the door!

Oh, what luck! Fuck a
duck! There’s a snake!
Oh, my gizzard! Holy hell,

an iguana! Can you spare
me some water? Just a drop,
won’t you, Pop? I guess not.

You’ll just watch while
my life drains away
just like this?


GET A GRIP,
YOU NITWIT,
can’t you hear
that the train’s
on its way,
over there,
to right here,
like the plan,
wheel’s a-
chuggin’,
steam’s a-
whimperin’,
all my life,
what luck,
to have a son,
so unplugged,
so much drama
(all from his mama,
would she still be here,
well he’d a never
been here with me,
and, oh, mama, on
our train, which was
our favorite, all night
long, making whoopee).
Now stand stupid son,
this drama’s over, and
I’ll have earplugs in
these ears before
supper’s toast and
cheer, good grievin’
god you are one
fried up hobgoblin
of drama, I do swear!

mmmcccxvi

To Bleed But Not To Howl

     His lesions were legion.
             —John Ashbery

Nowadays, there have

been times when just

a tiny bit of funny stuff

can turn me somehow

into one big blubbery

pile of the wettest mess.

But this, as it turns out, is 

most notable in light of

the fact that, for most of

my life, it is rather that,

during times most anyone

would consider the saddest,

when I’m amongst the most

depressing lot that you can

just imagine, there have been

way too many instances that

have arisen when someone in 

that downtrodden group, half

choked-up, says a few words 

that are just mind-bendingly

sad, after the which there is a 

long and particularly silent pause, 

well, wherein I’ve but bitten my 

lip good until it bleeds. And not 

from hunger, hon, no. But that’d 

sure be all kinds of ridiculous,

wouldn’t it, and at the very least, 

in more ways than just one?  But

rather, it is that I am so frightened,

that I might burst out with a big

belly laugh, having for some

reasons quite unbeknownst 

to me and in no time flat 

worked myself up into such

a lather that I've got a howl 

that’s come to hover just right 

here, behind my tongue and, 

boy, is it about to rupture!

I cannot think of any time

when I, amidst a crowd

that for a time has stood or

sat so darkly quieted, due 

to something horribly 

depressing that has just

been said or done, but that 

right after, just inside the

dark side of my lips does

this transpire: I bite, and

in exchange for the shriek
that such a toothy nip

would have most certainly
emitted, down goes the 

laugh that could scarcely 

have levitated even a split

second longer without an 

ungodly seismic eruption.

Having long ago become

mathematically capable

enough, plus the tinny taste 

of blood to which, year upon 

year I’ve become so accus-

tomed, these days I barely

wince, and not because I did

not learn the hard way how a 

shriek of pain can conceal, 

that is, can cancel out, a

shriek of laughter.  So I can

assure you all that as of now 

I’ve no qualms at all, in fact

am quite readily at ease, in

justifying that a little scar 

inside the lip, a bit of blood

to taste and then ingest, is by
and large a much more desirable 

option, in my expert opinion, than 

the alternative embarrassing spectacle.

mmmcccxv

Things to Do When You’re in Love.

          OK, let’s cope.
             —John Ashbery

I do but fall, I cannot

even catch myself, but 

how fantastic and how

horrid it most certainly

would have looked had 

anyone but me have 

been here to see it

(and keep in mind

there is nothing at

all hurting save my

pride), half underneath 

my bed, slipping madly

off the desk chair my

good friend Diane so
graciously sent as an
early birthday present
when I first moved in
nearly 3 years ago
(I must make time
cease to give the
impression it’s flying
buttresses) – and with

the phone still at my 

ear no less, as he had

called and was he ever
laughing – hang on. So
half under my bed, my big toe
torn in two (ok, it’s just the 

toenail, and it’s much worse than
it looks?) by my foot’s suddenly
being thrust by my fall to the floor

into the bookshelf, the one
with almost no books
(but lot of dried beans
in little diabetic baggies: 

like garbanzo, pinto, black, 

and black-eyed pea, where 

here we might leave the legumes,
so as to get right to the lentils –
orange and navy green – but
how am I to know, so long
as it isn’t string green beans,
strung beans, unless of course
it’s a lima (a lima bean, I remember
the two Limas [L e e m a  and  L y m a]).
Oh, shut up, you crabby fool!
Some people don’t mourn
every day like I do, mourn
every day? If I weren’t so
stoned I’d be ROFL. Which
is really all I was trying to
tell you about, because it
was so hilarious. By which
I mean tragic. You were
laughing through the face

on my phone (always with that

drop dead face!). I wanted to stop

your laughter dead in its tracks by crying. 

Sobbing like a watermill. I remember watermills.
Watermills. Broken toe. Leg
at such an odd angle. Okay,
two legs. Not at horror angles.
You were laughing, I was sobbing
into a milkshake? An imaginary
milkshake that had been real
only a few short moments ago.
“Don’t forget about midnight,”
says he, so sweet, and all my broken 

legs and toenails and the assemble-
out-of-box chair from Diane
that I got nearly four years
ago when I moved into this,
wow, I don’t even know what
to call it as I look around won-
dering what to ever call it. . . . .
Elvis in August (me half
under the bed, how can
I miss Elvis, no matter
which way I move my
broken face, no matter
if I spin the chair on
top of me clockwise
or counterclockwise –
which one is Australia?
I forget), tragedy of comedy,
half under the bed, broken toe
on the bookshelf with
almost no books, “Don’t
forget midnight,” but
by then I can’t shut up
about Mozart – da Ponte
operas and Aristophanes
and Shakespeare, the
only things worth a damn
older than a hundred
and fifty. And wouldn’t
you just know it, but
from tragedy, or more
from drama queen, at that, 

I was practically bubbling

over talking about those
damned operas, sublimity
and Peter Sellars, it’s the
same stories (do they ever
even change?) – and you said,

and did you ever say, just

like always, something 

that made me seem 

but invaluable. Elvis,
with his really nasty
jailhouse sex-face

sneer, Elvis the Un-
realistically Twisted 

Pelvis, tilted there

above my also

oddly-twisted

body which  

I  s o m e h o w
n o w  c a n  m a n a g e
to haul
up onto 

the bed

which I

was just

beneath;
my bed

with all 

the boxes

atop it

and with

and upon

which I

now curl

up some-

how not so

uncomfortably 

feeling just

exactly the
opposite
of tragic.

And it is

yet an hour

to midnight.

mmmcccxiv

Pile the Seeds and the Meat
Scooped from the Harvested
Fruit (Precisely as Instructed)

     Life is a short short story
     with explosive simmering.
                    —John Ashbery

Born into a place
filled with lots of
smiling faces, friends
and family and curious
strangers, all impossible
to trust. I was born to be
trusted.  Scratch that.  I
was born to be.  The tooth
hurts.  An acerbic wit, being
acidic, destroys enamel, slowly
making the tooth hollow.  A
hollow man is only half a man,
at most.  Shallow men can be
seen at the shoreline howling
over baubles. There are the
turn-of-the-century bubble
men, quite ripe, not hollow,
with feet that loudly squish
when they limp over the dry
pavement at the city-center,
where ads announce rock-
bottom prices on microwaves,
refrigerators and dogs and
buns for holiday barbecue.

mmmcccxiii

The Plight of the Privileged

     Don’t go buying anything
     and go do something.
                 —John Ashbery

I feel there
is a man
beneath me.

He must be
nearly
smothered.

mmmcccxii

What’s Normal, Anyway?

Things being so very upside down
these days, I wonder, if I were to
have an occasion in which to interact,
would my social anxiety be noticeable
at all? Would it be noticed? As an ex-
trovert with what has always felt to me
to be pretty severe social anxiety – for
as far back as I can remember – it seems
from all that I can glean from those with
whom I have been while interacting with
others, that I have generally come across,
apparently, as quite at ease with being social,
it has on numerous times been further suggested
by those with whom I would occasionally pal around
that being amongst folks in happenstances social may
well be my natural habitat. When I began to comprehend
the severity of what anxiety would do to me, when I first
began to call such issues anxiety, I started addressing
it with doctors and therapists and began, thanks
especially to them, to address the illness with
medications, prescriptions, began at least
to realize the discrepancy between the
conflict that I would feel within myself and
any given social situation, how much an effort
it would take in order to either force myself into
the social, so that I might in some way fulfil that
extroverted need to interact, embarrassing and
awkward as it might each time feel, or how
much easier it would at any given time be for
me to, as soon as the time came for such, as
soon as the lights went up after the
reading was over, for example, that
decision would truly only then be made,
and quickly, whether I was going to interact or
whether, instead, I would swiftly lift myself
out of my sitting position and at a quick
enough pace and with my head held
steadily down at a gaze toward the
ground a bit in front of my feet,
at a pace that could not have
looked at all natural, I would
glide to the entrance of the room
and on out the entranceway, and
no looking back right out of the
building and then at the same
pace I’d keep walking for a block
and then another block until I knew
that I was no longer at risk of having to
interact. I became astonished to learn,
to hear from one person after another,
from people who’d know, from the
closest of my supposed friends
or boyfriends or the like, that
they’d no idea I’d any anxiety
at all, at least not of the social
variety, that I was – to them –
well, oddly enough, I was that
insect which would veritably fill
my gut each time I made the effort
or found that I was trapped into an
awkward state wherein I felt I had to 

interact – they would actually say that 

I was a butterfly, a social butterfly.  It 

always stopped me dead to hear that, 

and yet to this day I appreciate such 

an incorrect assumption, the error
of it, of course, but also the pride
at passing, for real, I fit in, it was
not at all apparent what a wreck
I often felt I was, that ease which
I so wanted, that ease it seemed
to me so many had that for me
was only an impossible thing
that I could only envy.

Well, that was quite some time ago.
There’ve been a few important events
and circumstances that have transpired
which have impacted me and my so-
called social anxiety. The biggest of these,
I do believe, would be that, due to a few
related extenuating circumstances over
the past half a dozen years it has become
more and more rare that I might even
find myself in a situation wherein I might
interact. And when those moments happen,
I still most definitely feel the tension, feel
the conflict in my gut, but whereas in the
past I would pass as being quite at ease,
to my mind, granted, with almost no
additional perspective, no pal around
who might could tell me differently,
I would have to say that what might
have been seen as ease by all those
others way back when would today
be seen as quite a bit more rickety
than that; in fact, I’d bet my anxiety
would much more likely than not be
pretty clear to most anyone near.
Why so different now? For one thing,
having lived so long in ways that
were so very unfamiliar to any life
I’d ever known before, like, for ex-
ample, there was the six months I
spent living on the street during
evenings and nights while playing
business casual in a cubicle during
“business hours,” or that entire year
spent living in a shelter, or now, and
thankfully, approaching three years
living in my own small place, but
all the while without a familiar soul
around me, and rare at that to even
have people in my vicinity. And need
I even mention that all this isolation
has been further propagated by the
not insignificant amount of enforceable
mitigation thanks to a lengthy pan-
demic? And while I would not exactly
say that this pandemic is exactly reason
for this more identifiable anxiety, it cert-
ainly has exacerbated it, now that I have
spent a full year and a half in almost
complete isolation in the very same
room with less and less steps made
outside of this small living space,
and when I do cross the threshold
between in and out of it, times
that seem more and more rare,
these but few excursions involve
less and less distance and have me
masked, head down gazing in front
of my feet again, barely speaking
with a soul, much less acknowledging
others’ presence. So, truth be told, it’s
been so long, this isolation, that I might
say that it is the routine, even if it hasn’t
quite become comfortable, a thing I am
aghast to think. But what I really mean
by this is that it’s quite become already
plenty routine, such that it’s now incorrect
to call a thing like isolation abnormal, unusual,
anything but just another day from which

I sit atop my bed some mornings and
some afternoons, some early evenings or,
like right this moment, some dark hours
which, were the times a bit more ordinary
now, I might just call ungodly, writing
sentences like this, one on top of yet
another, that I build like so until they,
put altogether, become a something that
I might so package and then load into a
laptop like so, until, voilà, I pull a trigger
that then shoots it out into the atmosphere
in hopes it might reach someone,
anyone who’s of a mind to read.

Hello. Good day. How are you?
Are you there? It sure is nice
to think so, I must say, but
thank you, thank you. I’m
not for sure you’re not a
figment, but just in case,
I wonder what you’d see
if you were to look out
a window, perhaps?
I’d love so much to
know just what you
see. As for me, and
here, where dawn is
finally breaking, it looks
as if it’s going to be
another gorgeous day.