mmmcdviii

getting lost

fascinating, tragic, really,
the difficulty bringing up
an honest subject that, as
it turns out, is the heart
of the matter, the crux
of the problem.

used to, on a normal day,
a day like any other, i’d
willingly dwell in the
darkest recesses of my
head, my soul, anything
that i thought was me,
for real, and dish it out
to whomever was within
earshot.

but there’s that moment,
a boundary which, once
crossed (and it’ll take a
stupid heavy amount of
work, of will, of discipline
to get back to the safe side
of this boundary), the dark
recesses take over almost
everything. but the worst,
the most stunning part of
what happens, at least
when i cross the line
and become aware
once again that i
must somehow
conjure up
whatever
it might
take to
find my
way back—

every pathway
out of which comes
all of the straight talk
about who i adamantly
think i am—and it’s not
that the willingness to
convey is gone—it’s
that those pathways,
for the duration of
time it takes for me
to get back to where
i belong (let’s say
there are techniques,
there are methods,
none of which
are guarantees;
let’s say the
journey is
treacherous
and replete with
what may as well
be landmines, and
magnificently monstrous
structures that arise almost
as if to simply keep you away
from home, from normalcy, from
health, from magic and love and
productivity and the capacity
to feel part of civilization,
as it were; all the maps
are inconsistent and
way off scale)
render you
speechless,
and since you
cannot speak
in that normal
and comfortable
and everyday fashion,
asking for directions
is the most difficult
equation and cannot
be verbalized adequately,
and paranoia rises to the fore,
making anyone you might
meet in this confusing
land, friend or foe or
neutral, suspect;
and cause you to
doubt you will ever
make it back. and
anyway, what can you
say? in a land where
communication is
near impossible.
what can be
said? what can
ever be said?

but perhaps you’ve got
what it takes – maybe
you’ve had lots of practice,
and rather than draining the life
out of you, these journeys made you
stronger. perhaps, when you find your
self cursing the world and yourself for
once again getting yourself lost, for once
again leaving your safe space, the place
wherein eloquence and focus and
engagement transpire with abun

dance, and with joy and ease,
while you know that the trek
back will be long, arduous
and fraught with a series
of uncomfortable if not
downright dangerous
situations. each time
that i find myself
there, alone, in
that hard country,
i curse myself a
bit less for not paying
attention to where i was
meandering, and then i just
get to the work of getting the 

hell back to where i’m supposed to be.

there are no other viable
alternatives. it’s do or
die. and it might be
awkward and pain
ful and scary and
there are times
when i’m not
certain that
i’ll get back,
but when i do,
and, knock wood,
thus far i always have,
the release, the relief,
and the peace that
comes from being
able not only to
B R E A T H E,
but, to S P E A K,
to L I S T E N, and to
E N G A G E,
these liberties
are as if newfound,
my perspective, altered
irrevocably, and so the
possibilities are exponential.

the capacity to see where one
is going, on all dimensions,
and to come back to that with
enough regularity, so as not to get
lost...maybe we’re supposed to lose our way.
or perhaps, as it sometimes appears to me
as i make my way through a crowd, most all of us
are already lost, perhaps irrevocably. my country
is huge and strange and captivating, as in it
holds me captive? as in it enslaves me? as in
it holds me safe? it holds me gently within
its borders? but i hear the voices on
the other side sometimes.
and i. . . . .

mmmcdvii

snapping out of it

sometimes things get totally
nuts, right?
and, so, what do you do? you
pull yourself together, that’s what;
prioritize! do a bit of
introspection or extroversion.
nap (but not too long or too often).
get

o
u
t

of your tiny apartment, you moping
fool, you blathering

idiot!
that’s really all there is to it.

mmmcdvi

3 weeks

del is short for delinquent. “this happens to
everyone,” he says, sweetly. or did he say it’s
“pretty normal” – yeah, I think he said both. but i should take some
responsibility for my behavior. huh? i mean, if the malady hits
everyone, doesn’t it then become how each individual then handles it?
sure. but what am i saying here? i think i’m just
saying.
isn’t that the point of a diary? a journal? a blog? isn’t it
onanistic? then, out of nowhere comes an answer:
“nonsense!”

mmmcdv

lock your taskbar, the metaverse is coming!

lucy couldn’t believe her luck! it was already
october, halloween was just around the
corner, and she had just this afternoon walked into a
knick-knack joint down on the corner of

yoruba and meyer, right next to the
old navy that used to be a piggly-wiggly.
“u
remember, don’t ya,

tim?”
“as if,” thought tim. lucy is such a
sucker for
knick-knacks, this much tim knew already,
but why did she always have to be so
all in? these two lovebirds were shuffling off to the local
rodeo; a night out on the

town for st. alpen’s
hottest new couple,
etc.

memo to self (which, is the same as a note to self, but not an
email to self), forget what i just said and
take this down, pronto:
“attention! attention!”
(victor was bored out of his mind)
“evacuate immediately, i
repeat, evacuate the office, the building, the apartment complex, the hospital, the
shopping mall,
evacuate!

i
say, evacuate!”

“come on people,” said an
overworked
millionaire (“they exist!
i promise,” she said)
“not gon’ do ut! not
gon’ do ut!” and that, my friends, was that
!

mmmcdiv

the day’s last chance

which might just
as easily be its last

dance: “last call 

for alcohol,” will 

yet be a couple
of hours from now.
which would on
ly then be my
favorite time of
the night to cut a
rug—after the
drunks’ve gone
home. however,
i’m talking about
what to do to put
my final stamp on
this day, today;
tomorrow’s to
morrow. so, as it
’s less than an hour
to midnight now,
what am i doing
but writing a few
words down to
send your way—
so very few folks
seem to know the
least bit of who i
am, as it were—
it’s a little some
thing that excites
me to think some
one might want to
know, might even
begin to get it right.
self self self me me
me, that’s the way it
is and the way i(t)’ll
always be (i suppose).
but besides these lines?
let’s see, though—it isn’t
as if i’ve nothing to show
for the last twenty-three
and a half hours (or so).
this would be the day i
might’ve finally snapped
out of my funk after be
ing bullied out of yet
another too short stint
of employment. i even
got asked to schedule
an interview. but isn’t
that boring stuff? what’s
not is my wonderful con
versation with mom late
this evening – another
night of going over old
photos, trying to see if
we can come to some
sort of quorum over
who’s who in all of
the old tolbert and
weaver photos i
seem to have in
herited. and this i
did whilst eating a big
bowl of okra, which i
picked up at the market
just a few steps down
howard this afternoon,
frozen, truth be told,
but what a treat of a
bowl of okra it was!
mom says that sadly
and oddly enough, she
hasn’t even had any this
year. as of yet. what else,
what else? well, there was
a rendezvous that was quite
titillating, and which i think
i’ll just leave at that. but to
say being in love is such a
treasure, one that like the
photographic nostalgia has
that giddy air of familiarity,
and sure, it’s impossible to
call it new anymore, but
just to feel it, just to say
it, is still such a strange
and exciting thing that
for a while there i had
wondered, i had really
wondered if i’d ever
really have a good
reason to say it again,
to feel it once
more, and always
unique, thank goodness,
new and different, and i
guess i said i was going
to leave it at that about
twenty or so lines ago.

which is to say that as

far as today goes, i have

now apparently danced 

it almost entirely away.

speaking of lines ago,
lines to go, and miles
to go before i sleep
(not really; i just
move my butt from
my wobbly chair to
my broken bed, upon
which sits the laptop on
which i type with some
speed this missive to get
it locked and loaded and
on its merry way to you
post haste, it being now

seven short minutes 

to midnight). . . .

mmmcdiii

imperiled

unimpressed, aren’t you?
not to bring this up again, of course, it’s so
embarrassing. the world is
manipulative, overbearing, heavy as heck,
plotting my demise. i can think
like this sometimes. it’s
okay, isn’t it?
yes. if i can answer my own question.
education by
default.

mmmcdii

drag a little

drag is wide, drag
is expansive, you
can tell as it comes
at you from quite a
distance, drag is
grand as it makes
an entrance. drag
is fabulous, like
being 64, or like
living in 1964. it
can elevate you,
making you feel
‘better than,’ and
it can really—and
i do mean really—
put you in your
place; it’s at times
humbling, hilarious,
hard to get, hammy,
hardcore, oh, it can
be hardcore. drag
can be entirely sex
less or it can be very
sexed up. it’s almost
always sexy. isn’t it?
drag can be drunk off
its ass, it can be jacked
up out of control, it can
be very messy. it can al
so be pageant-perfect (I
suppose there’s someth
ing for everyone). I re
member drag pageants.
they were incredibly in
tense. halloween is no
thing if not a big drag.
this is because a cost
ume is drag. pretend
ing to be someone you
aren’t or being the pers
on you really are is drag.
from my little bit of inv
estigation, there is a LOT
of makeup that goes into
drag. sookie simone, a
real little rock drag star,
had actual boobs. and
would often, at least at
some point during her

performance (usually

near the end), show
them gladly to the
often overcrowded
audience. i’ve ne
ver been in the
green room be
fore or after a
drag show, but
i have heard tell
of some pretty rauc
ous things happening
back there. mostly drugs,
per my sources. many drag
sters love to do the splits at a
really critical moment in their
performance. drag is sometimes
sung with drag voice, perhaps music
written by the performer, but seems
most often to be a performance of a
song that is often one which the aud

ience would probably be famliar. i would

not recommend singing along to a drag

performance, unless you are specifically

asked to do so. i’ve know a few drag coup

les. sometimes they would go out in drag

together. other times they would not
go out in drag. it depended. i’ve dated
two people who performed drag on occ
asion. one was a guy named rene, and
this was in the late 1980s when for wh
atever reason i was quite frightened of
drag and everything surrounding the
subject. obviously i was intrigued.
the other was many years later, and
he made a point of never allowing
me to see his drag persona perform,
but her drag name was lucy and she
had a definite air of mystery and
interest around her. i think that i
could go on for quite some time
telling you what to my mind is
drag, and various anecdotes i have
picked up about drag over the years.
i did drag once. it was halloween
(appropriately enough), and i guess
you might say that i was judy jetson.
i’m not going to lie to you, i was the
life of that party. it was an absolute
blast. was that the only time i did drag?

mmmcdi

there’d be a del, and there’d be a ______

and a real room to
organize high noon
can not come a
moment too soon.

“what about my job?”
i ask at a quarter
past seven, not sure
he realizes what he’s

saying, “nah, i’d have
a job,” since we’d
need to get married
for him to have a real

job. but i forget this
is what most everyone
wants. he’s more a
mused about it all,

particularly what he
expects would be
the incessant ‘tidy
ing up’—what we

don’t know of each
other excites me as
much as it frightens
him. i wonder how

truly worrisome this
is. probably not much?
but ‘if you don’t know
me by now, you will

never, ever, ever know
me.’ he’s not amused
because he really does
n’t get it. is this honestly

where experience comes
into play? i remember be
ing young. i remember de
ciding almost immediately

to find a way to exist under
the same roof of a dorm, a
studio, or a real apartment.
i remember it working out

wonderfully, just fine and
a bit terribly. like having
sex for the first time, you
find out almost immediate

ly something incredibly
strange, almost insur
mountable, something
definitely out of the or

dinary and NOT with
in your realm of expe
rience or even expect
ation. and you wonder

“can i do this?” a few
months later and what
seemed almost like a
dealbreaker has become

something incredibly
endearing, perhaps the
one thing you look the
most forward to, an as

pect of your life toget
her that has become
almost necessary. and
then, with no warning,

the quirk is no longer;

your partner’s moved
on. oh, no. what hap
pened? is the love

gone? what did i do
wrong? so then comes
the moment of truth,
the first real fork in

the first real road.
maybe you decide
to stick with it, to
learn to be fine with

out that one original
quirk, thinking it’s
time to find the next
exciting quirk. may

be there’s actual work
involved in the process,
but oh, when you do
find it! what becomes

obvious at that moment
is that anything, that
everything is possible.
so you want to keep

doing this, right?
sure you do! abso
lutely! let’s find
every single idio

syncrasy, every
fetish, let’s work
our way deliber
ately toward ev

ery possible kink.
that’s when these
words have nothing
whatsoever to do with

sex. only...what is
your partner’s do or
die? pay attention!
it can matter. it

does matter. fur
thermore, and more
importantly, how
far along are they

in this process that
you’re experiencing?
are you experiencing
it together? simultan

eously? probably not.
“what’s my motivation,”
said that the actor to
the acting coach. “you

‘re a book,” says the
coach, “and the job
is to determine how
many pages separate

your page from 
that of your partner’s.

mmmcd

epigraphs as a means of engagement

     Goodness is better than evil
     Becuz it’s nicer.
                         —Anselm Berrigan

Hello community, what do we think of
using epigraphs by poets we’re currently
reading to kickstart poems we write our
selves? I have a hard time comprehend
ing how this might be a problem, but I’m
assuming, as with most anything, there are
pros and cons. It’s like Glenn Ingersoll says
in his somewhat similar project (to mine, to
this one) that sometimes devils (I’m para
phrasing, I think) are sexy and sometimes
they’re repulsive. He’s talking about
Satan here! I write this with an exclama
tion point as if it’s a big surprise to me,
knowing full well that I’ve been caught
by the web of the devil’s sexiness before,
probably much more often that I’ve been
caught up in their ugliness. This to me is
just as fun a topic as using epigraphs from
poems I’m currently reading or have just
recently read to kickstart a new poem by
yours truly – and sometimes I've already
laid the groundwork in my head about
what this poem will be about, pretty
much how it will begin, the trajectory,
and occasionally (but rarely) exactly
how it will end. As you may or may
not be able to tell, that isn’t the case
here. I’ve just been reading Anselm’s
book “Something for Everybody,” and
came across this quote of his and decided
what a great and true quote. So simple, so
concise, yet so quirky how it’s said, by
changing up just a word, really, and how
understated it seems because it’s so truthy,
so obvious. And there’s the fact that, while
it’s so clear to me that good guys are not
always the winners in the end, and bad
guys are not only often quite recompensed
or elevated in the public eye by just being
bad guys, but so many of them never get
a jot of punishment for their criminal or
at least bad behavior, it is a tenet that I
seem to hold on to for dear life; that’s how 

important it is for me to be good and not 
bad, subjective as that lifelong quest can
often be. So there. I’ve asked a question.
Offered up some evidence or an example
of how I utilize the practice of using these
quotes by others. And why don’t I throw
in another valuable aspect of this practice,
one I’m sure I can find agreement with
from some folks who have experience
with such things, but perhaps it’s a
small minority who would go this
route, who am I to know: I get to,
in a way, as agreeable as I some
times am with the quotes I put with
in my poems, to engage not only with
the poet, very often one in which I’m a
huge fan, sometimes, somebody I’ve
never heard of before, but am obviously
happy to have done so, and occasionally,
whether I'm a fan, a non-fan, or an up=to=

now person to whom the source of the
quote is completely unknown to me or
was up until a very recent moment,
it’s a sort of a “fake” and yet “real”
way to have a discussion with that
poet or quoted person—publicly.
Sure, that makes it tricky, it ups
the ante, there’s a certain amount
of risk one takes, particularly
if you’re starting off with a
quote by one of your heroes,
but isn’t that the most okay
part of it all. Even when
you agree with something
you hear, why not put that
agreement to the test of,
in my case, publicly met
ing it out? Even and esp
ecially if that someone is
a hero of yours. Also, I
don’t do this as a means
to have some sort of rel
evant debate or use as
inspiration a quote by
someone just to toss it
into a void. It’s very
much meant as a
vehicle for engage
ment. And that to
me means engagement
well beyond the virtual
page you see here. Talk
with me. Talk to me. DM
me, as they say. Or do they
say that anymore? I dunno.
I’m here, I’m around, it’s
easy to find a way to do
such a thing. It’s just a
thought and a hope, but/
and I said it. To you.

mmmcccxcix

jabs

in high school,
which relevantly
included junior
high where i
went, the kids,
the adolescents,
the almost adults,
the ones that had
the wherewithal to
put such things off
into the future and
didn’t immediately,
once riled up, scuffle,
whether in class, in the
hallways at the lockers
before, between or after
class, during class some
times, the ones with a look
toward the future, would

make an appointment to
take care of their business
behind the circle m during
lunch, at the end of the day
after classes were done, or
sometimes mornings before
classes even started or during
classes that were skipped just
for such occasions. i never did
participate, except when grabbing
my corn-nuts and seven-up for
lunch, which i did now and again,
sometimes every day of a week, at
the circle m, and upon leaving the
store, or before entering it, and i’d
see an inordinate amount of dust
sweeping across the lot through
the gas pumps, or hear a bunch
of noise like there might be a
basketball or football game
going on, only of course
there wasn’t, i’d peek
around the southeast
corner of the small
building, see a few
guys standing up
going in and out
of sight behind
the brick wall
to the north
side or “back
yard” of the
circle m,
and once or
twice i slowly
crept along the
east wall of bricks
until i nearly got to the
very end and then i’d
see it, the odd shaped 
circle of boys, hands up in
the air rooting on one or the
other of the two who remained
in the open space, the center of
the misshapen circle. there might
be a bloody nose or two, there might
be a tackle down to the gravel for a
moment, but when they were up and
dancing around in the open space with
their hands up in the air, the jabs they
managed were hesitant, juvenile, i’d
say now, and frightened, they looked
afraid, and i can’t remember ever seeing
a punch that ever landed on flesh in the
mere moments of experience i had catching
glimpses of the fights behind the circle m. it
gave me some hope. even when it came to a
real fight, the dance was about fear and intim
idation more than anything else, the intent to
literally hurt, to cause pain, seemed to be on
nobody’s minds but the massive amoeba of
boys cheerleading, egging on the temporary
foes, making room for the fight’s existence.


     *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


i learned this week that i’m due for a booster
vaccine shot. in fact, anyone who got the
johnson & johnson shot was officially
recommended to get a booster shot
no earlier than two months after getting
the first one. i got my jab over six months
ago, and only after i had my own bout with
the monster that gave the world the pandemic
within which we’ve so awkwardly meandered aim

lessly about now for what will soon be two years. i 

remember getting the shot right in front of my nut

ritionist’s office door (only because i recognized her 

name; i had never met her, our appointments were of
course via telephone: i had recently been diagnosed a 

diabetic). the mood was a bit sedate, but still there was 

the distinct look and feel of celebration, particularly on the
faces of the staff who did such a wonderful job herding us 

inside and getting us to the right places at the right times
for our individual jabs. for a week, the area where the
needle went in to my arm was incredibly sore, as if 

i had somehow managed to overwork just the por
tions of the muscles in the near vicinity, or had 

been punched by a person with inordinate 

strength as hard as they could punch 

directly over where the needle jab 

had recently occurred.

     *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


for nearly two years, i’ve enjoyed the luxury of
having a very special person in my life. the only
problem has been he lives in the southern hemi
sphere of our great planet, and thanks to the pan
demic that began quite around the same time that
our relationship began, we’ve yet to even meet in
person. which is not to say we don’t talk daily and
at length, we don’t have most of the joys and spats
and friskiness and repartee that most anyone who
enjoys a more proximal thing of this sort would
presumably normally enjoy. before things went
haywire, the plan was for him to come visit what
would now be some eighteen months ago. thanks 

to travel restrictions, as well as financial restrictions, 

we have yet be in the same room with each other.
while i don’t believe in karma, this part of the
story is particularly karmic, given how much
grief and fun i’d poke at any friend who, over
the years, would regale their long-distance rel
ationship stories. but that’s a digression. today
is special because today my very special person
just got his second vaccination jab. the embassies
are still not taking visa interviews for trips to the
united states in that faraway place where he lives,
but it cannot but surely bring that day significantly
closer, and makes for a wonderful reason to cele
brate nonetheless, i would say. jabs. 

jab jibberty jab.

mmmcccxcviii

new poem

     There are always so many things to do.
     No matter how many of them you’ve done!
                                          —Glenn Ingersoll

I might as well make a
totally abstract to do list.

I realize what a tease I’d
be to not go ahead right

now and crank out just
for you an example of

what my abstract to do
list might look like,

but I’m actually quite
comfortable being called

a tease; it’s a notion that
has made me laugh for

several decades now –
I mean, it’s more than a

notion – since I’ve been
called a tease quite a few

times over the past several
decades. Me? A tease? I

have some pretty strong
beliefs, wrapped around

what I used to call a value
system that I was overjoyed

to see begin to solidify or
come to fruition, and the

old me, the one who might
at any given moment have

a quorum of some sort in my
very presence, would often

tout these beliefs based on this
burgeoning value system quite

vociferously. but just because
one believes strongly about

a particular subject does not
automatically mean that the

said believer is even an act
ive participant in that thing

which he might tout as being
good, a-ok, important, if no

thing else, food for lifelong
thought – for when a time a

rises wherein, say, this, what
had always been a very strong

and voluble belief might be app
ropriately put into play. I would

envision that this would become
less abstract (I’m curious, are you

at all surprised the direction these
lines are now taking, the twists and

turns that got us here – imagine for
a moment that there is no logic, no

logical progression; wouldn’t that
suck? Or would it? What if we had

no actual rules, and that all of our
belief systems—along with the values

those are potentially enwrapped and/or
tangled together with—what if all of

these were just based around hunches
rather than some sort of educated no

tions, what if there was no logic to
your or my belief system? Would

we even go to the trouble of putting
forth an effort at peaceful coexistence?).

I might start to give examples of what I am
talking about. So, here is one: I believe

strongly that monogamy is a ludicrous
construct. Just bringing this up would

always and almost immediately be the
start of quite a raucous discussion, the

purported sexuality of the quorum
notwithstanding – it’d always go

down the same: folks would be so
intrigued, mostly all vow that they

could not even imagine having an
open relationship, a non-monogam

ous one; the rules in which one might
get a bit of leeway would be discussed

(hypothetical celebrity free passes,
it’s okay to play around so long as it’s

at the gym, etc.,) and it might come up
how Europeans have infidelity down to

an art, which would allow that it is also
the expectation rather than the exception,

presumably. Now, all I said to start was
that monogamy was a ludicrous construct.

By the end of the discussion, feelings were
often visibly bruised, there were accusations

that I was trying to pawn off a belief system
to others, people would stand up for their val

ues, etc. I was the instigator. The one to be
careful around, because you might get pro

voked. I’d also often be, to the best of my
finite capacity for knowledge and my ability

to listen and comprehend and slice through all
of the bullshit, it would later appear to me,

the most ardent monogamist, the person who
would be the last to just up and disappear from

a relationship, a friendship, family, even. To
this day the hypocrisy of all that I would go

on to discover and rediscover over and over
again, the lack of logic applied to what folks

believed so strongly in, as far as I could
possibly glean.....I mean, this was a time

period in which I began to understand the imp
ortance of empathy, the same compact set of

years in which I’d, upon hearing about a friend
in need, would go out of my way to do anything

I could to make sure they were okay – it wasn’t
that this was a foreign concept with me, but for

reasons I could probably guess, I was a late
bloomer to ever feel those feelings, the need

to help others, rather than turning the other
way. I’m no martyr, please don’t imagine I am.

I do love screwing around with certain cultural 

mores, however; especially ones set up

around acts of engagement and of sex.  And any

thing near the concepts of love, commitment....

Commitment. And honesty. These are
not abstract notions. But if I were to place

myself, or these lines, in the realm of the
abstract alone; if I were to forego all meta

phor, just string a few words together as
if they were a grocery list, or things to do

at the office this week, or even design an
abstractly illegible (illegibly abstract) bucket

list, would the heartache be avoided?  Would
hard-earned values be lost? Unidentifiable? Per

haps it’s not so easy connecting even a flimsy
correlation between the thoughts I started with

a the top of this piece with anything that has

come after. And while I like to have things

very cut and dry, very clear, not so organic–

as an actor I appreciated the director who

told you exactly when to walk from one
spot to the next, exactly what to say, in what

dialect; this was not restrictive to me, it was
freeing, and I could still earn my talent, show

case some of it, be the actor with range, 

thanks especially to the directions that made 

all of that possible. I don’t know. And what

does it matter, any of what I’m saying to you

now, here, on this virtual page?  Not a thing,
really. .  .  .     We’re told to think outside

of the box. If things don’t fit comfortably,
if this narrative seems to meander, doesn’t

say much, or what is it doing exactly? And
why? Are these questions we need to answer?

Absolutely not. But it’s good to ask them
once in a while. It’s good to take on an

occasional challenge.  And to return
that favor by challenging others,

don’t you think?  Anyway, I would

say to you please have a look if you 

might.  What you see (read) is who I 

am.  What joy to imagine someone just

reading these lines to decipher a little
bit about me, and nothing else at all.

I hope you get much more than my story
here. I’m certainly awaiting yours.  With hope.

mmmcccxcvii

a limerick regarding a malamute

which i always
thought of as moose

until that one day
we went Alaska way

and boy did that dog
ever despise me

mmmcccxcvi

The Witch’s Unbearable Relief

chips on
shoulders
rust tin men,
give cowardly
lions shoulder
blisters (who
convinced the
predator that
he was a cow
ard?), leave a
taste of dend
rite and bat
tery acid in
scarecrows’
mouths, give
toto a case of
the incessant
round and a
round and a
rounds and
yet empow
er dorothy
with a sense
that, if things
continue along
in this part
icular traj
ectory, she
might soon
find that she’s
grown some
wings and is
able to fly ho
me on her ve
ry own. as
for the witches,
each are empow
ered by a love-
hate relationship
with their own
power, although
none but two ev
er give a second
thought on the
feel of the power,
and none but those

very two feel the 

tingle of the potency
of the darker arts
involved in being
a scoundrel with
such power that
the words formed
within their two
mouths might be
chewed by the
mouth, swallow
ed and digested,
often quite un
comfortably, or
might as easily be
projectile vomited,
directly upon the
landing of each
crumbled letter
at the bottom of
their stomach,
after sliding
like dark
centipede-
like creatures
down their elong
ated esophagi;
no matter which
direction the
words of the
spell goes,
the damage
is all-in-all
the same, it’s
just that the
victims are
turned around.
the life of a hag,
especially one so
constantly scared
shitless of a little
damp spot, a rain
storm, much less
a thunderstorm,
the oceans, the
tidal waves, ri
vers, creeks,
women slough
ing, men just
sweating, the
fear, the fear
of a tiny tear
drop emanat
ing from one
of her own
eyes, is one
filled with
an extreme
ly elevated
anxiety. it
sounds like
she’s being
tormented
in such dem
onic ways as
she cries out
at the end of
a week? a
day? how
long had it
had been?
filled with
such absurd
ities, filled
with emo
tions like
she’d never
known before,
excitement, gid
diness, fear, loss:
“i’m melting!
Melting!” But
let me offer up
to you that what
sounded like raspy
horror was the most
immense relief, the
greatest joy she’d
ever known. She
was a witch, cursed
with a raspy and
nasally voice that
could make any
utterance sound
as if it were her
dying words. But
these, her actual dy
ing words, the screams,
what came at us as
the horror, the relief,
the how did we do
this, the how could
we ever get away
with this, these
were nothing
compared with
the sheer release,
the closest thing
to pleasure she’d
get, were those
moments that 

the bit of water

from that pail

at first began

to shrink the

screaming

warted

witch, and

inevitably

took her
into the
ground
beneath
her, until

eventually

she flows
many a sep
arate way
somehow
making her
way to one
vast expanse
of ocean after

another, the 

wet expanse

from which 

we had all

originally

arrived. the
relief would
last at least
until then,
although it
would dis
sipate as
what was
left of her
became more 

and more and

more disp
ersed. such
toxins were
created during
this process, well,
truth be told, it was
a particularly large
gulp or two of a
witch from another
unknown portion
of “unseen earth”
that had made its
way to kansas
and which dor
othy had taken
just before she
slipped into
such a long
and feverish
slumber. once
a witch is gone,
she’s gone, but
there nevertheless
come out of the
intoxicated earth
the fundamentals
for more to arise
and fall, just as
this one had done.
as dorothy began
to fall deeper and
deeper into that
feverish slumber,
as the tornado
twisted and
swept through
the dusty cor
ners of several
states, the in
cantations
that took her
over, “there’s
no place like
home” “foll
ow the yell
ow brick
road,” “we’
re off to see
the wizard,
the wonder
ful wizard
of oz,”
these
were the
spells of
dorothy
the kansas
witch. it had
already been
written. not
in books, mind
you, but in the
stars, and with

in the tattoos
deep-set with
in the skins of
the flying mon
keys and the
drunken munch
kins. fate is
the heresy that
these creatures
know too much
about, and will
do their part to
quell the rum
ors of destiny.
for each tale
involves a pair
of jeweled slip

pers, a cobbled 

sidewalk to a pro
fessorial codg
er, to a witch
that sounds to
shriek in the
greatest pain
ever felt, but
who is grate
ful for the
kansas witch
and her dot
ing dog, a
doting she
can only
find in the
deep recesses
of her boldest
imagation. st
ay away from
the soil that
stays moist
around dark
castles, as
it’s more

trouble
than could
be conjured
by the most
cursed spark
ling glass
dunked
ever so
carefully
into the
gloomiest
of moats.
find a cou
ntry with
no castle,
i say. cold
homes and
hairy warts
are bad om
ens, might
you please
drop by to
help me rid
myself of
mine? my
gratitude,
and your
recompense
would know
no bounds.
but do hurry
before the
cobbled
rust of
oz disin
tigrates.
come
now.

mmmcccxcv

zombie world

you know, i
don’t mind all of the
zombies here in
zombietown.

in fact, i’ve kind of
gotten used to them.
given all the toxins
let loose by the apoc

alypse, however, it’s 
a thousand wonders
i’m still here.  i
mean, i’m good

at planning ahead,
being prepared;
i know most
all of the

tricks of the trade—
of survival, that is.
how to push death
to the side when

it manages to
stand up
and hobble
its way toward me,

putting itself
between me
and wherever
i happen to be

going. yeah,
but the tough
part—the tough
part for a man

born of the world
what’s been gone now
for about as long
a duration as my

contemplation can
muster the oomph
to even imagine
anymore—

but what i do
remember...
i say but what i
do most clearly

remember. . . .
what i’m telling
you (oh, would
that you were

even here to
remember
with me),
what i meant

to say was. . . .
so i have the art
of shoving death
down to the curb.

and of moving 

ever along to 

wherever it is that i
happen to be going.

these things i can 

do, yessiree. but
when it gets right
up in your face—

when it gets so
close that you can,
that i can smell its lack—
its lack of life? why it’s

all i can do to stop
myself from, well,
from doing the same
idiot thing that i’m

doing to you now,
as if you were here
in front of me and
could hear any

of this useless litany
of words i spill at
you. it’s hard, i
tell you. it’s

getting damn near
impossible. not to
say hello. not to
attempt to

engage. but
i know as well
as you do what’d
happen the first

time i don’t
somehow man
age to quell
that impulse.

it’ll finally
have gotten
me, that’s
what. so

tighten your
lip, mister,
for here comes
one now.

mmmcccxciv

i couldn’t agree more

if so, what am i
agreeing with,
or even worse,
to, more or less?

this can’t be the
way we go about
agreeing. but isn’t
it? let’s try to be

civilized about this
and rejigger the pro
cedure, come up w/
a better way to reach

a foregone concussion.
boy, come to think of
it, wouldn’t it be swell
to come up with a way

to conclude in a more 

diplomatic, more eff

icient, less anxiety-rid

dled manner? who writes

these rules? WE DO!
perhaps before getting
so gung-ho about it, we
might better think this

through. isn’t that the
process we’re using at
the moment, what got
us here in the first place,

that the handbook here
makes not a lick of real
world sense, so if we put
our heads together, maybe

do a little brainstorming,
we might improve the
process. we could app
ly this method as a

hopeful means of
improving lots of
things: lovemaking,
heat strokes, coming

up with the most
efficient, pleasant-
to-the-senses wind
ow dressings with

which to dress all
of the windows in
our shared space
(shared spaces in

general, but do we
really want to ex
haust ourselves
with democracy

in action at, say,
the workplace,
places were our
community come

together, either to wor

ship, to convalesce, to

picnic—fortunately the 

latter do not normally

require spaces with
windows, but let’s
not forget “in the
event of inclement

weather,” as it hap
pens around here
with a regularity
that, at times,

seems much
more often th
an not.) also, i
might need some

time to reconsi
der my original
vote, given that,
now that i think

about it, it’s a com
plex, more involved
issue, with more var
iables to consider

that might go odd
ly sideways or ex
plode unexpected
ly when it comes

to things of this
nature, so i think
i’ll need a few
days, perhaps

a week or two,
oh and i’ll be
going out of
town on the

20th. can i
get back to
you on the
first of the

month? no,
i meant the
following
month. that

should give
me an adeq
uate duration
of time during

which to go a
bout all the re
search that i im
agine would be

required in order
to come up with
a more adequate
response. what’s

that, again? you
need an answer
by this wednes
day? well how

in the heck are
we going to go
about the busi
ness of correct

ing such an in
efficient and
ridiculous pro
cedure? we’ll

never get the
results that
would best fit
the complexity

of the problem
at hand if we’re
to put in a well
deliberated an

swer by wed
nesday! this
is the problem
with all of our

problems, don’t
you think, john?
we’re overrun
with rules and

libraries full of
books full of
procedures
that are anti

quated, and
that simply
do not work.
how might

this problem
ever be solved,
i ask of you?
what’s that?

yep, yep, ta
king the fam
on a fishing
trip for the

long weekend.
it’s going to be
a nightmare, i
can promise you

that already. and
what about you and
sue? big holiday
plans? don’t even

tell me, you’re head
ing out east to the cas
inos. i tell you, john,
gambling...gambling

is going to be the
death of you two.
and how about
you try to stay

in the right lane
for the duration.
no more road
rage, okay?

that last time?
man, what a
story. i worry
about you two

and your short
tempers. the
rules of the
road, john!

surely you’re
well aware th
at the rules ex
ist for a reason!

mmmcccxciii

true or false

     There’s no bond
     of reality between money and enough
                          —Anselm Berrigan

it’s just as important
to know how much
trouble you have
gotten yourself
into as it is to
know that
you’re in
trouble.

mmmcccxcii

my point is

     weaponized emphasis
        —Anselm Berrigan

to which i say
huzzah and
why not and
we’re poets
aren’t we?
line the
words up
until they
are worthy
of a post.
as a child,
for example,
i would have to
help my dad on
weekends build
fences. around
pastures. so, rath
er than spend a sat
urday reading tolk
ien, let’s say, or
stephen king, just
to toss out a coup

le of faves from 

my youth, i’d be
stuck in the
sweltering
heat some
where mid
dle of no
where
digging
postholes.
building
fences.
barbed
wire so
the cows
won’t get
out, and
so as to
deter prob
lematic animals
from getting in, i
suppose, although
that didn’t stop
most. also,
and let’s
be honest
here, a fence
is a way to announce
to whomever might
happen along that
this is not yours,
it’s mine, stay
away, keep
out. no need
for any sign, esp
ecially considering
the fences my dad
built. and it’s gonna
be mine for a while
is basically what
one of dad’s past
ure fences would
seem to almost
say. in arkansas
history class, i
remember the
sing-songy rote
way the teacher
(he was also a
football coach,
but he was a
terrific history
teacher) taught
us to say the
native american
tribes that lived
in our state before
it was settled,
before it was
“discovered”
by ponce de
leon, who was
looking for the
fountain of
youth, so
we were
taught,
and, of
course
made
his way
north and
into what’d
become the
united state
in which i
grew up
because
there
were
rumors
about a
healing
hot spring.
anyway,
choctaw,
chickasaw,
cherokee,
creek, and
sometimes
sioux. i
remember
that. or
that’s how
i remember it.
also that, years
after i left arkansas
for what i assumed
correctly would be
the fabulous places
in the beyond, that
the coach was with
his wife and kids
in a car traveling
home from some
where and a drunk
driver hit their car,
killing the coach’s wife 

and kids. perhaps i’m
remembering it a
bit incorrectly,
but he lost his
wife and child
or children,
maybe she
was pregnant.
i really enjoyed
arkansas history
class, and i had
no expectation
that would be
the case. quite
the opposite.
and social
studies, which
always gave me
the worst grades.
but when the coach
was teaching, i got
really into it. choctaw,
chickasaw, cherokee,
creek, and sometimes
sioux. that is exactly
all that i can recall
from spending an
entire year?
semester?
studying ark
ansas history.
if i had a
point,
what
might
it poss
ibly be?
that all
day long
i’ve been
either sleep
ing or thinking
about poetry?
that i’m late
for dinner?
that i’m
in love?
that i
miss
my
dad?
that i
read a
lot of
science
fiction
when i
was in my
youth? that
i can no longer
watch a horror
movie, no mat
ter how much
i want to? is
that true? that

everything i

thought i knew

as truth was 

incorrect? i
suppose there are
ways one might get

some real answers.

mmmcccxci

kittens grow up to be tigers

     two bits, four bits
     six bits, a dollar,
     all for the tigers
     stand up and holler!
           —a cheer i remember from high school

we are having a conversation
about mascots because i’m
wearing a t-shirt with a
tiger on it that, i
tell him, “could
have come from the
football field or the basket
ball court of my youth. high
school.” it’s important i add
high school. mascots come
from anywhere, don’t they,
but aren’t they usually from
high school or college, part
icularly associated with team
sports, right? assigned often to a
school or institution on the whole, yes?
i had fallen asleep on my broken chair
for something like two hours, and when
i woke up i felt not only upset to have
missed the two hours but also a little
violated. i had one of the two avoca
dos that i brought back from the
doctor’s office – yes, for
whatever reason, and
this part is not a dream,
i assure you, i had brought
a heavy bag filled with fruits
and vegetables from the doctor’s
office, where i had an appointment
earlier this afternoon. the nurse literally
said “you know, you get your prescriptions
from your doctors, well, this is your food
prescription,” that’s what she said. i was
a bit giddy over the prospect of going
through whatever was in the heavy
bag when i got home (which i did,
and the first thing i was to bring
out of the bag: blackberries. i
ate the entire carton of them,
did not even get up to wash
them first, they were so
sweet and so perfect).
there was a slit in one
of my avocados and i asked
you if it was okay, what i should
do about it, whether you thought it
might be good to eat – you seem to
love avocados are always talking about
adding them to this, that or the other. you
seemed a little bit nonplussed at my asking,
but said it should be fine, you suggested
peeling it a certain way, but i was already
eating it right out of the green, leathery
skin, avoiding the pit, the seed, that
object in the middle that i took
many years ago from another
avocado someone had
peeled and eaten or
cooked with or
made guacamole
dip with, and hung
with toothpicks over
an open container of
water, the nut barely
touching the water,
where i lived at the
time, i was in under
graduate school, our
mascot was, oh, we
were the warriors,
there weren’t a lot
of sports at my un
dergraduate college,
and the seed inevit

ably grew roots that

swirled about in the
water, so then i planted
it in actual soil and i
remember keeping the
plant i grew from the pit
of an avocado for quite
some time, probably
hauling it to the first
lonely apartment in which
i lived by myself, this was
in downtown little rock, and
it was there in that lonely
apartment that my avocado
plant most probably bit the
dust. anyway, as i scoop and
eat the absolutely delicious
fruit of the avocado, you
mention something about
being careful not to get
avocado hands. my hands
have clumps of little green
avocado, and i have to re
ply that it’s too late, but
you say something else
that gives me the impress
ion that avocado hands is
more of an affliction, not
just hands messy with av
ocado. i take note, but
don’t worry at all, think
ing how splendid the taste
and, once it’s all gone,
the after-taste is in
my mouth. i wonder
like i sometimes do
about various foods,
why i don’t eat more
of them, don’t buy
them fresh and bring
them home and enjoy
them on the spot like
i just did today thanks
to the nurse at my
doctor’s office. i
look down at the
tiger on the belly
of my shirt, a
shirt belly that
i’d love to lose
some of, and i
think about mas
cots and cheer
leaders and
football games
and basketball
games i’d go to
because i was in
the band, and i
continue the con
versation as if we
didn’t leave it for
quite some while,
venturing even in
other directions as
we did; i say, “it
really reminds me
of my youth. the tiger
being my childhood mascot,”
and then i think, looking further
back toward childhood, “high school
(junior high it was, appropriately, kittens.)”
to which you reply, “kittens? school mascots?”
and i just respond, as if not really hearing you,
“inert tigers in a way. babes in the world of tiger land.”
and then i get up from my broken and wobbly chair, the
one i’ve been asleep for two hours in, and i just transfer
myself over to my bed, where i read a few pages from a new
book of poetry that i’ve picked up this afternoon – “something
for everybody” by anselm berrigan – and i bring my laptop, approp
riately enough, onto my lap, and i write these few words that i’ve written,
which i will post soon, passing them along to whomever might wander by,
glance over some of the words, or stay to read it through to the end, in
either case, i’m happy you’re here, thank you so much for the company.

mmmcccxc

inside joke

     You don’t have it
     unless you can get it...
             —Rae Armantrout

how far
out of
con
text

can
floss
ing w/
gossip
be taken?

wink
wink
or
blink
blink?

you’re
funny.

wasn’t
he, tho?

phony
balo
ney’s
what
he is!

i plead
no con
text, yr
honor.

touché?

mmmccclxxxix

stoner sonnet

i am wondering how
qualified i am, as i’m
whisked away to the
army base, where i

grill sausages and big
dogs all day in front of
the px.  the sun stays on

my eyes the whole time,

no matter where i move
the umbrella. but that’s
astral projection, or per
haps, time travel. i

tried to suggest that
i’m not really qualified.

mmmccclxxxviii

a rock’s lament

to wait
is not
to live.

there’s
the rock,
there’s
the sling
shot,

and there’s
the boy
holding
them, at

first in
separate
hands.

the sling
shot is
prone,
has been
for what
seems like
forever.

the boy
takes aim
at the robin
on the tele
phone wire.

the rock
has lang
uished in
waiting.

but to
kill a
bird?

it dreamt
of soaring,
absolutely,
but this?

this
was
never
the rock’s
intent.

the boy
is focused
on the bird;
the slingshot
in his hand
is ready for
the ecstasy
of release.

the rock,
finally
soaring,
is env
eloped
in grief,
aware on
ly now that
its entire ex
istence was

but for
this boy
and this
bird.

mmmccclxxxvii

All Lip and No Bite

how often he sees
his love down on
his knees; first
he’s hunched,
then he’s hunk
ered, he can’t
find his keys.
he’s under the
table and quite
late for work, and
he’s muttering
something, can’t
make out just what,
but you know that it’s
harsh and it’s dark and
it’s denigrating, unsui
table, really, for this
time of the morning,
so, “Ben,” says the
partner still stand
ing down toward
the miserable man
that’s but scrunched
up in under the most
distant corner of the
end table sitting
(of course) at
the opposite end
of the coffee table
from where Norman’s
(the one that’s been
standing), “Benny,
I’ve got your keys
in my hand over
here, they were
in yesterday’s
khakis, like always,
my dear.” then
Ben’s up from the
floor, but first there’s
a bonk as he bangs his
head at the marble
underside of the
table he’s somehow
gotten himself
under, nearly lifting
it clean all four legs off
the floor (and it’s not
a light lift with that
green slab of marble),
“oh, goodness! oh,
thanks Norm,” he’s
back on his feet, and
not just a teensy
bit awkwardly. he
grabs the keys out
from Norm’s thin-
fingered clasp and he
(this he does gracefully)
plants a real kiss onto Nor
man’s thin lips and he’s
out the door, van
ished, all lickety-split.