Where Did It Go?
The
possibilities
are
always
endless.
And I am
only a writer.
How would I know?
Tuesday, November 30, 2021
mmmcdxxxvii
The Final Stretch
I am reading
ever so slowly
towards the end
of Wobble by
the beloved Rae
Armantrout. How
many times I say
her name just to
say it, write it
just to type it
and to show
case a hero
I am reading
ever so slowly
towards the end
of Wobble by
the beloved Rae
Armantrout. How
many times I say
her name just to
say it, write it
just to type it
and to show
case a hero
of mine
and this time,
today, while
seemingly
staring down
the same page
for days (for
days!). At
the same
page of
spare and
precisely
placed words.
To commem
orate, I take
a photo for my
guy, the lover
I have yet to
touch, even
after all but
two entire years,
lifetimes, as it
were, thanks
to lives lived
in separate
hemispheres
and a human
war with a
virus, I snap
a photo just
for him of me
reading slowly
towards the end
of Wobble.
For whatever
reason, and/
but of course,
the photo that
comes of the
event shows
what appears
to be a mini
ature version,
a wee me, read
ing a gargantuan-
sized version of
her book. An app
ropriate illusion
if ever there was
one. I zap the
photo to the
other hemi
sphere, as
we do, and
I immediately
get a call from
him, a video
call. He calls
me because I
have asked him
to call. But only
him. At present,
while I slowly
and slower still
work my way
toward the end
of this wonderful
book, I will only
accept his call,
no other. So I
answer his call,
happily, and read
him two of the
poems from this
wonderful, seem
ingly gigantic
book, one that
certainly has
dwarfed me
in a simple
photograph,
and quite
hilariously,
adding here
and there to
the words from
the two poems
I have chosen
randomly and
urgently to read
to him, adding my
own words, for
worse, rather than
better, of course,
as if there is need
to explain anything
(there never is with
the Lady Armantrout)
but I giddily explain
and re-explain, att
empting to show a
few of the many
facets of a short
few of the brief
stanzas or sections.
First I read “Instuctions,”
and as it floats down
and this time,
today, while
seemingly
staring down
the same page
for days (for
days!). At
the same
page of
spare and
precisely
placed words.
To commem
orate, I take
a photo for my
guy, the lover
I have yet to
touch, even
after all but
two entire years,
lifetimes, as it
were, thanks
to lives lived
in separate
hemispheres
and a human
war with a
virus, I snap
a photo just
for him of me
reading slowly
towards the end
of Wobble.
For whatever
reason, and/
but of course,
the photo that
comes of the
event shows
what appears
to be a mini
ature version,
a wee me, read
ing a gargantuan-
sized version of
her book. An app
ropriate illusion
if ever there was
one. I zap the
photo to the
other hemi
sphere, as
we do, and
I immediately
get a call from
him, a video
call. He calls
me because I
have asked him
to call. But only
him. At present,
while I slowly
and slower still
work my way
toward the end
of this wonderful
book, I will only
accept his call,
no other. So I
answer his call,
happily, and read
him two of the
poems from this
wonderful, seem
ingly gigantic
book, one that
certainly has
dwarfed me
in a simple
photograph,
and quite
hilariously,
adding here
and there to
the words from
the two poems
I have chosen
randomly and
urgently to read
to him, adding my
own words, for
worse, rather than
better, of course,
as if there is need
to explain anything
(there never is with
the Lady Armantrout)
but I giddily explain
and re-explain, att
empting to show a
few of the many
facets of a short
few of the brief
stanzas or sections.
First I read “Instuctions,”
and as it floats down
its single page while
flying like a supersonic
jet through our brains
while gaining
impossible speed,
yet slowly and stead
fastly floating, the
words, as they do,
down that singular
dizzying path, all the
impossible speed,
yet slowly and stead
fastly floating, the
words, as they do,
down that singular
dizzying path, all the
way to that hard
stop right at the
bottom, as the jets
in our brains have
spun out of control,
maddeningly, and yet
quietly, landing us both
somewhere looking at
the same map of London,
a map with two exits out
stop right at the
bottom, as the jets
in our brains have
spun out of control,
maddeningly, and yet
quietly, landing us both
somewhere looking at
the same map of London,
a map with two exits out
of the metropolis, one
in red, the other in blue.
A precocious baby has
died in the arms of a
mother who may have
given birth to her the
day before, an ogre of
a man has shot off un
remembered words filled
with such condescension
that indicate he blames
the mother for the baby’s
sudden death, words that
loom like the supersonic
explosions we cannot get
out of our heads as we stare
quietly at the map and wonder
which exit is to be ours. Kaboom.
Second, I reading “Trick” which
reveals quite assuredly the great
riddle of how you don’t have it
unless you’ve got it... or can get
in red, the other in blue.
A precocious baby has
died in the arms of a
mother who may have
given birth to her the
day before, an ogre of
a man has shot off un
remembered words filled
with such condescension
that indicate he blames
the mother for the baby’s
sudden death, words that
loom like the supersonic
explosions we cannot get
out of our heads as we stare
quietly at the map and wonder
which exit is to be ours. Kaboom.
Second, I reading “Trick” which
reveals quite assuredly the great
riddle of how you don’t have it
unless you’ve got it... or can get
it, that is. But how? I excitedly
tell him about my poem in
response, in which I’ve so
proudly, I think at first,
turned the riddle back
onto the poem. But
then it hits me, and
I’m so excited I can
barely give emotion
to my thoughts, much
less actual words, which
have, as it turns out, been
done irrevocably and quite
already for me. And you.
And my guy. In explaining
how clever I am, I realize I’ve
been duped – as no riddles
linger – every answer is right
here, and succinctly, on the
page. The sphinx has let out
her dirty little secret for all
to hear and know and rue.
It is a fait accomplis. What
need, therefore, is any add
itional accomplice? Zilcho.
Nada. None. The Secret’s
out. It’s been delivered
directly by the poet. She
had it all along. Played
with it right in front of
us, and then finished it
so that the secret exists
no more. She knows
this because we know
it, too. She can’t take
it back. And my paltry
attempt to juggle her
well-worn baubles of verity
for a tiny giddy moment,
thinking that I was in
any way adding or even
replying or fancifully
retorting to her brilliant
words, were nothing but
a fraud, an attempt to
impress my love with a
juggling act; it lasts for
maybe a moment or two,
but for what, because,
response, in which I’ve so
proudly, I think at first,
turned the riddle back
onto the poem. But
then it hits me, and
I’m so excited I can
barely give emotion
to my thoughts, much
less actual words, which
have, as it turns out, been
done irrevocably and quite
already for me. And you.
And my guy. In explaining
how clever I am, I realize I’ve
been duped – as no riddles
linger – every answer is right
here, and succinctly, on the
page. The sphinx has let out
her dirty little secret for all
to hear and know and rue.
It is a fait accomplis. What
need, therefore, is any add
itional accomplice? Zilcho.
Nada. None. The Secret’s
out. It’s been delivered
directly by the poet. She
had it all along. Played
with it right in front of
us, and then finished it
so that the secret exists
no more. She knows
this because we know
it, too. She can’t take
it back. And my paltry
attempt to juggle her
well-worn baubles of verity
for a tiny giddy moment,
thinking that I was in
any way adding or even
replying or fancifully
retorting to her brilliant
words, were nothing but
a fraud, an attempt to
impress my love with a
juggling act; it lasts for
maybe a moment or two,
but for what, because,
the secret exists no longer,
there’s no need for a show,
no need for tell, no need for
frippery, not even for any
engagement of any kind.
And while he does indeed care
for me, he cares not a jot for jugglery.
The show’s over, the juggling’s done,
and even in my embarrassment, I’m
elated to have been there, to have been
so intimate with the words and with my
love, perhaps such intimacy that I have
never even known, with the palatable
hope, or rather the sheer knowledge, the fact,
that there will be more and more
there’s no need for a show,
no need for tell, no need for
frippery, not even for any
engagement of any kind.
And while he does indeed care
for me, he cares not a jot for jugglery.
The show’s over, the juggling’s done,
and even in my embarrassment, I’m
elated to have been there, to have been
so intimate with the words and with my
love, perhaps such intimacy that I have
never even known, with the palatable
hope, or rather the sheer knowledge, the fact,
that there will be more and more
and much more to come.
mmmcdxxxvi
November Promises
Now is perhaps when I should relay
Over to You
Very fine folks that to keep a little personal promise, an
Exercise if you will, on goal, I have written and somehow
Managed to post a whole
Bunch of poems (That’s, at last count, I believe,
Eleven, plus this one?) in a period of time shorter than the last two days. Wait,
Really the 2-day total with the one final poem coming shortly will be sixteen. Wow.
Now is perhaps when I should relay
Over to You
Very fine folks that to keep a little personal promise, an
Exercise if you will, on goal, I have written and somehow
Managed to post a whole
Bunch of poems (That’s, at last count, I believe,
Eleven, plus this one?) in a period of time shorter than the last two days. Wait,
Really the 2-day total with the one final poem coming shortly will be sixteen. Wow.
mmmcdxxxv
An Acrostic Poem for Ms. Cleta Hoffman, My 4th Grade Teacher
As it turns out, I am a
Cross, and to be more thorough, I’m Del
Ray Cross
Of the
Small town of Charleston, Arkansas, which is
Tucked
Into my state’s namesake River Valley around about the Ozark Foothills. It was in
Charleston that Cleta Hoffman, my 4th Grade Teacher, submitted a poem I wrote while taking her
Serendipitous class—it was a goofy sonnet entitled “Math”—into a statewide competition,
That like most all of the other poems “submitted,” no doubt WON, by
Henceforth being published with all of the other winners into
A
Not very tiny tome, but rather, in a compendium, a
King-sized magazine: a magazine of poetry!
As it turns out, I am a
Cross, and to be more thorough, I’m Del
Ray Cross
Of the
Small town of Charleston, Arkansas, which is
Tucked
Into my state’s namesake River Valley around about the Ozark Foothills. It was in
Charleston that Cleta Hoffman, my 4th Grade Teacher, submitted a poem I wrote while taking her
Serendipitous class—it was a goofy sonnet entitled “Math”—into a statewide competition,
That like most all of the other poems “submitted,” no doubt WON, by
Henceforth being published with all of the other winners into
A
Not very tiny tome, but rather, in a compendium, a
King-sized magazine: a magazine of poetry!
So, to
Ms. Hoffman, educator of dreamers, lover of poetry and teacher of
Screwy 4th graders, my
Heart and gratitude goes out to you wherever you may be:
Heart and gratitude goes out to you wherever you may be:
Thank you for pouring a little bit of poetry into my soul.
It was always and never enough.
mmmcdxxxiv
“Wobble” by Rae Armantrout
Well, I’ve done it.
Only,
Boy, oh,
Boy, Why did I ever
Let it
End?
Well, I’ve done it.
Only,
Boy, oh,
Boy, Why did I ever
Let it
End?
mmmcdxxxiii
Itinerant
“Idiot,” I say
To myself.
“I’ve done this before.”
“Never
Ever!” I
Reply before quickly hushing up.
Art.
Not
Thought.
“Idiot,” I say
To myself.
“I’ve done this before.”
“Never
Ever!” I
Reply before quickly hushing up.
Art.
Not
Thought.
mmmcdxxxii
Veterans' Affairs
“Vedral was in the military?” I entreat or
Exclaim, suddenly not certain. I hear “Alzheimer’s,”
Thinking yes, that was Ved, but the rest nod off as if in prayer. “Hey,
Eddie!!” I’m shaken. He knew the payout, knows the prayer by
Rote. “But he was MY UNCLE!!” I shake
And stutter the words everywhere.
“Not so, Ray.!” It’s Irv, of course. Thinks he knows it all.
“Says here Great Uncle.”
As if there’s a difference? I
Fluctuate between lost and finally seeing who Uncle Vedral was. Between
Finding myself securely and then getting lost in the confusion
And the clatter, or whatever noise you call that made by
Industrial strength styrofoam plates overfilled with gravy and almost nothing else.
“Ray...” beckons Aunt Pearl! I cut her off, and the room, which I
Slice with my machete into enough pieces for everyone to take home some of their own.
“Vedral was in the military?” I entreat or
Exclaim, suddenly not certain. I hear “Alzheimer’s,”
Thinking yes, that was Ved, but the rest nod off as if in prayer. “Hey,
Eddie!!” I’m shaken. He knew the payout, knows the prayer by
Rote. “But he was MY UNCLE!!” I shake
And stutter the words everywhere.
“Not so, Ray.!” It’s Irv, of course. Thinks he knows it all.
“Says here Great Uncle.”
As if there’s a difference? I
Fluctuate between lost and finally seeing who Uncle Vedral was. Between
Finding myself securely and then getting lost in the confusion
And the clatter, or whatever noise you call that made by
Industrial strength styrofoam plates overfilled with gravy and almost nothing else.
“Ray...” beckons Aunt Pearl! I cut her off, and the room, which I
Slice with my machete into enough pieces for everyone to take home some of their own.
“You think I didn’t know about the affairs?? Everybody knew about Ved
and his affairs!” Until, that is, nobody did.
mmmcdxxx
Colossal
“It’s a
colossal
little motor
within such a
tiny device,”
he said, as if
deeply interested.
And then he inhaled
from it, blowing a fog
of smoke that drenched
the entire San Francisco block
for what seemed an eternity to each
of his omnipresently bleached-out pals.
“It’s a
colossal
little motor
within such a
tiny device,”
he said, as if
deeply interested.
And then he inhaled
from it, blowing a fog
of smoke that drenched
the entire San Francisco block
for what seemed an eternity to each
of his omnipresently bleached-out pals.
mmmcdxxix
Why Not?
Which nut said yes to all of this
Hippie nonsense? You no doubt read me right;
Yep, I asked who agreed to all of this here hippie-dippy
Nonsense?
Oh, like you have no idea who
The culprit is
?
Which nut said yes to all of this
Hippie nonsense? You no doubt read me right;
Yep, I asked who agreed to all of this here hippie-dippy
Nonsense?
Oh, like you have no idea who
The culprit is
?
mmmcdxxviii
Some Not-So-Professional Advice
Del,
Everyone, good
People,
Rotten ones,
Everybody. Get
Stoned! You probably heard correctly, that’s right. I said
Stoned!!
Engage with the ganja, get
Done up, blazed, crunked and/or zaded
If that’s your pleasure. And if it’s generally not, but you’re generally
Sad? Well, this formerly paranoid, once persnickity,
Not-so-fierce advocate of being chopped, faded or generally
Obliterated suggests you might just get chopped, faded or obliterated. And
Then maybe even huggied (?). I
Say
This with some newfound experience. So try on some quasi-pseudo-antidisestablishmentarian
Obliteration; get steeched, chonged or otherwise blowed one down-and-out
Night or one down-and-out day, or hey, maybe even a whole super-low year. I’ve yet to
Del,
Everyone, good
People,
Rotten ones,
Everybody. Get
Stoned! You probably heard correctly, that’s right. I said
Stoned!!
Engage with the ganja, get
Done up, blazed, crunked and/or zaded
If that’s your pleasure. And if it’s generally not, but you’re generally
Sad? Well, this formerly paranoid, once persnickity,
Not-so-fierce advocate of being chopped, faded or generally
Obliterated suggests you might just get chopped, faded or obliterated. And
Then maybe even huggied (?). I
Say
This with some newfound experience. So try on some quasi-pseudo-antidisestablishmentarian
Obliteration; get steeched, chonged or otherwise blowed one down-and-out
Night or one down-and-out day, or hey, maybe even a whole super-low year. I’ve yet to
Embark upon an entire year, I will admit, but I’ve known some long-term yatsdenots, and they
Do seem relatively and fairly consistently happy.
Monday, November 29, 2021
mmmcdxxvii
Dusting Off The Ol’ Mustachios Again, I See!
At (during, pending, poking, prodding) the verity of
Riding the surfless, unwet waves with the unemployed from
At (during, pending, poking, prodding) the verity of
Riding the surfless, unwet waves with the unemployed from
Back at the start of the pandemic to beyond the foreseeable future,
I have survived via checks that have been
Thusly labeled “unemployment” and/or “pandemicable,” etc., and so now, having
Reasonably (?) survived some nearly two years of same, I’ve decided to hone up on
Arbitrary-speak and give a polish to the old pity papers. I trust you know precisely what I mean,
Right? It goes something like “Riddledy?” “Ah, piddledee-dee!” and so on from
Ye to thee and then sometimes, somehow all the way back to the as yet unjobbable me.
I have survived via checks that have been
Thusly labeled “unemployment” and/or “pandemicable,” etc., and so now, having
Reasonably (?) survived some nearly two years of same, I’ve decided to hone up on
Arbitrary-speak and give a polish to the old pity papers. I trust you know precisely what I mean,
Right? It goes something like “Riddledy?” “Ah, piddledee-dee!” and so on from
Ye to thee and then sometimes, somehow all the way back to the as yet unjobbable me.
mmmcdxxvi
Inside and Outside Upside-down Boxes
You don’t have it
unless you can get it
down
and outside in
some kind of
box.
—Rae Armantrout
For heaven’s sake, our
Lady’s called
It, and quite at
Pin
Point!
Everyone can agree, so
Down to it, shall we? Let’s get
Petty with our pottery, our poops, our pity-parties and,
Oh, our pumas and pompons. The entire
Lot of it! This
Year’s mostest-
Hearted is already an
Erstwhile
Death-on-arrival, am I
Right?
Of course, I am.
Now, what to do about it?
(Oh, come on,
Us! We
Tight-lipped,
-
Overly tarty
Faux pas in waiting gotta
-
Dance just like all the
’Oity t
’Oity types, am I
Right? (Once again, I am!) And that about
S)ums it up from me. Over & out.
You don’t have it
unless you can get it
down
and outside in
some kind of
box.
—Rae Armantrout
For heaven’s sake, our
Lady’s called
It, and quite at
Pin
Point!
Everyone can agree, so
Down to it, shall we? Let’s get
Petty with our pottery, our poops, our pity-parties and,
Oh, our pumas and pompons. The entire
Lot of it! This
Year’s mostest-
Hearted is already an
Erstwhile
Death-on-arrival, am I
Right?
Of course, I am.
Now, what to do about it?
(Oh, come on,
Us! We
Tight-lipped,
-
Overly tarty
Faux pas in waiting gotta
-
Dance just like all the
’Oity t
’Oity types, am I
Right? (Once again, I am!) And that about
S)ums it up from me. Over & out.
mmmcdxxv
Excoriated
(I could still try XXX—if it’s even a thing?)
Except somehow there seems to need to be a
XXX or overextension or to at least have been an ex
Cerpt (in any context) simply in
Order to arrive at the anti-
Rave. Have
I even been to
A rave, I sorta wonder (knowing full well
That I’m always too
Excluded to’ve been given a map by which to amble or
Drive in order to even arrive at one of those)?
(I could still try XXX—if it’s even a thing?)
Except somehow there seems to need to be a
XXX or overextension or to at least have been an ex
Cerpt (in any context) simply in
Order to arrive at the anti-
Rave. Have
I even been to
A rave, I sorta wonder (knowing full well
That I’m always too
Excluded to’ve been given a map by which to amble or
Drive in order to even arrive at one of those)?
mmmcdxxiii
Gratitude
Friends, I am
Underwhelmed!
Can you
Know
True
Happiness? This
Arrogant fool suspects
Not. His head swirls in excess to
Know the truth, though. And
Sometimes, occasionally, a
Gift comes
In the guise of an ominous
Vessel, and sometimes that oversized horse’s mouth, well,
It deserves a big, fat foot in the equine
Noggin’ if you ask this (and, rest assured, he’s more often gracious than not!)
Gringo.
Friends, I am
Underwhelmed!
Can you
Know
True
Happiness? This
Arrogant fool suspects
Not. His head swirls in excess to
Know the truth, though. And
Sometimes, occasionally, a
Gift comes
In the guise of an ominous
Vessel, and sometimes that oversized horse’s mouth, well,
It deserves a big, fat foot in the equine
Noggin’ if you ask this (and, rest assured, he’s more often gracious than not!)
Gringo.
Sunday, November 14, 2021
mmmcdxxii
Thurlow B Cross
(and his son & grandson, in memoriam)
The winter Grandpa died,
he’d been out chopping wood
until late morning, sat first on his
recliner, got up, told Grandma Hazel where it hurt, covered his
lungs with the palm of his hand then patted his chest, moved
over to the sofa, she had run to get him some aspirin, and
when she was back in the living room, he was on the sofa, on his
Back, lifeless, a heartattack. Dad had
Cancer, lymphoma, he was 57—the age I’ll be in 3 years—it had
ravaged him, but he had seemed on the mend, went down fast in
one short week, my brother, Gary, found him face-down in the driveway, he’d
spit blood until he was completely spent, gone too soon. At 48, Gary—he and Dad shared the
same middle name, Grandpa’s, Thurlow—fell asleep in his truck one hot night, never awoke.
(and his son & grandson, in memoriam)
The winter Grandpa died,
he’d been out chopping wood
until late morning, sat first on his
recliner, got up, told Grandma Hazel where it hurt, covered his
lungs with the palm of his hand then patted his chest, moved
over to the sofa, she had run to get him some aspirin, and
when she was back in the living room, he was on the sofa, on his
Back, lifeless, a heartattack. Dad had
Cancer, lymphoma, he was 57—the age I’ll be in 3 years—it had
ravaged him, but he had seemed on the mend, went down fast in
one short week, my brother, Gary, found him face-down in the driveway, he’d
spit blood until he was completely spent, gone too soon. At 48, Gary—he and Dad shared the
same middle name, Grandpa’s, Thurlow—fell asleep in his truck one hot night, never awoke.
Saturday, November 13, 2021
mmmcdxxi
MOTIVATE
MURDER! MAYHEM! A NIGHT AT THE
OPERA! YOU'RE LATE FOR YOUR
TELECONFERENCE!
INVECTIVE!
VICTORY IS NIGH!
ALL HANDS ON DECK!
TIME'S A'WASTIN'!
EXCLAMATION POINT!
MURDER! MAYHEM! A NIGHT AT THE
OPERA! YOU'RE LATE FOR YOUR
TELECONFERENCE!
INVECTIVE!
VICTORY IS NIGH!
ALL HANDS ON DECK!
TIME'S A'WASTIN'!
EXCLAMATION POINT!
Friday, November 12, 2021
mmmcdxx
FREEDOM (a draft)
Friday night, it's late, and I'm
Ready for a job (hi,
Everyone,
Did you think, perhaps, that I would say “weekend”
Or,
Friday night, it's late, and I'm
Ready for a job (hi,
Everyone,
Did you think, perhaps, that I would say “weekend”
Or,
Maybe, “a drink” . . .?)
(although a
drink would be nice, sure, but
rather, to be employed . . .
and to have the
financial wherewithal
t) (o show for it...) (what a dream!) (Oof!)
(although a
drink would be nice, sure, but
rather, to be employed . . .
and to have the
financial wherewithal
t) (o show for it...) (what a dream!) (Oof!)
Thursday, November 11, 2021
mmmcdxix
you are my sunshine
yes to rainbows!
outtasite! (rad!)
u & me!
ain’t that the truth!
rad! (outtasite!)
elvis lives. enjoy every moment.
me &
you!
sweet dreams. super-duper (soopah-doopah)!
under the moon. to the moon. on the moon.
not a
second goes by that i don’t think of you.
heaven must have sent you. hey good lookin’.
i’m all aswoon, over the moon.
never a dull moment (nope, not even one).
everybody dance now!
yes to rainbows!
outtasite! (rad!)
u & me!
ain’t that the truth!
rad! (outtasite!)
elvis lives. enjoy every moment.
me &
you!
sweet dreams. super-duper (soopah-doopah)!
under the moon. to the moon. on the moon.
not a
second goes by that i don’t think of you.
heaven must have sent you. hey good lookin’.
i’m all aswoon, over the moon.
never a dull moment (nope, not even one).
everybody dance now!
Wednesday, November 10, 2021
mmmcdxviii
faraway tangerine
A photograph is a dead skin you shimmy out of.
—Sarah Fran Wisby
frame this. the tart green bum of
a pear in the foreground focus; pink, just
ripe honeycrisp apples scattered
among or against a blur of orange—
wraithlike tangerines
as it turns out—a conspicuous distance away, last
year, the year before, i forget?
take
another look
next year and it’s
going to be the same.
every year, in fact, the fruit stay just as
ripe, the color, the harmony, what one imagines the taste
is or was, everything about the sanguine sight remains
) notwithstanding the various joys and tragedies befalling
each ongoing spectator (
A photograph is a dead skin you shimmy out of.
—Sarah Fran Wisby
frame this. the tart green bum of
a pear in the foreground focus; pink, just
ripe honeycrisp apples scattered
among or against a blur of orange—
wraithlike tangerines
as it turns out—a conspicuous distance away, last
year, the year before, i forget?
take
another look
next year and it’s
going to be the same.
every year, in fact, the fruit stay just as
ripe, the color, the harmony, what one imagines the taste
is or was, everything about the sanguine sight remains
) notwithstanding the various joys and tragedies befalling
each ongoing spectator (
Tuesday, November 09, 2021
mmmcdxvii
anything for which to be thankful
lollipop, lollipop,
oh, lolli, lolli, lolli . . .
not just
everyone has an anyone . . .
lollipop, lollipop,
yeah!
lollipop, lollipop,
oh, lolli, lolli, lolli . . .
not just
everyone has an anyone . . .
lollipop, lollipop,
yeah!
mmmcdxvi
i have something exciting to tell you
here’s
a little something to get
very
excited
about. please take
note:
i was going to tell you all...ah...it’s
nothing, really.
today, like
every day, i
rose from my broken bed
very much myself.
i had a bowl of breakfast. or
else i
whistled, yes, whistled
to the tune of waking up. i’m
out to lunch, aren’t i?
darn it, yes i am!
anyway,
you all have a nice day
!
here’s
a little something to get
very
excited
about. please take
note:
i was going to tell you all...ah...it’s
nothing, really.
today, like
every day, i
rose from my broken bed
very much myself.
i had a bowl of breakfast. or
else i
whistled, yes, whistled
to the tune of waking up. i’m
out to lunch, aren’t i?
darn it, yes i am!
anyway,
you all have a nice day
!
Sunday, November 07, 2021
mmmcdxv
dear ugh,
overworked, exhausted!
but i don't even have a job!
how horrible it is to be
unemployed again, doing
nothing day in and day out except
ticking off open positions for which
i've sent letters of interest, resumes, etc.
no money in either pocket. i
guess i really am a poet.
Saturday, November 06, 2021
mmmcdxiv
BIF Arcana
build back better?
is that where i find myself tonight,
politics? well, i’m
always trying new things:
rutabaga, rutabaga, rutabaga;
testing, one, two, three.
if i say first thought best thought
should i stick to my guns? will there be live
ammunition? what an ungodly
nation, am
i right?
night
falls over
riverdale.
archie and jughead twiddle their thumbs.
“sometimes politics
trips me out,” archie says, adding, “not to be
rude, but you just wouldn’t
understand.” (archie was bred for politics, you see)
“correctamundo,” says jughead, “now let’s
tweet about it in our
undies until the cows come home.”
riverdale’s like that, thinks
everyone except
betty, who
is thinking about
love.
love and scuba diving, that is.
plus, she thinks for a minute about
archie; more precisely: “i wonder what
sex would be like with archie.”
“shut up!
ew!”
says the veronica in her head.
build back better?
is that where i find myself tonight,
politics? well, i’m
always trying new things:
rutabaga, rutabaga, rutabaga;
testing, one, two, three.
if i say first thought best thought
should i stick to my guns? will there be live
ammunition? what an ungodly
nation, am
i right?
night
falls over
riverdale.
archie and jughead twiddle their thumbs.
“sometimes politics
trips me out,” archie says, adding, “not to be
rude, but you just wouldn’t
understand.” (archie was bred for politics, you see)
“correctamundo,” says jughead, “now let’s
tweet about it in our
undies until the cows come home.”
riverdale’s like that, thinks
everyone except
betty, who
is thinking about
love.
love and scuba diving, that is.
plus, she thinks for a minute about
archie; more precisely: “i wonder what
sex would be like with archie.”
“shut up!
ew!”
says the veronica in her head.
Friday, November 05, 2021
Thursday, November 04, 2021
mmmcdxii
grace and frankie
grace
reeks of
alcohol,
cannot
even manage to
amble down to the beach.
not to be out
done,
frankie
rallies by burning a stick of
amber incense.
now they’re all tied up in
knots over such an
intense
episode. [to be continued]
grace
reeks of
alcohol,
cannot
even manage to
amble down to the beach.
not to be out
done,
frankie
rallies by burning a stick of
amber incense.
now they’re all tied up in
knots over such an
intense
episode. [to be continued]
Wednesday, November 03, 2021
mmmcdxi
spontaneous homage
There’s gonna be goth
bathroom readings.
—Anselm Berrigan
templeton refused to
hug
elsa after her goodbye.
recess
excess. their
sex had
gotten
otherworldly.
nano
nano!
also, she
berated him in front of
everyone. but before things
got so
out of hand,
there had been tons of
hugs. oodles of them.
because,
abracadabra,
those
hugs, at least for Templeton,
rocked so hard (the two became
one and they were
off to the
moon), now he had to
rewrite
everything.
also, he just wanted to be
dead. but he stayed alive.
i told him that
nothing ever
goes exactly the way we want it to.
“same here,” he said.
There’s gonna be goth
bathroom readings.
—Anselm Berrigan
templeton refused to
hug
elsa after her goodbye.
recess
excess. their
sex had
gotten
otherworldly.
nano
nano!
also, she
berated him in front of
everyone. but before things
got so
out of hand,
there had been tons of
hugs. oodles of them.
because,
abracadabra,
those
hugs, at least for Templeton,
rocked so hard (the two became
one and they were
off to the
moon), now he had to
rewrite
everything.
also, he just wanted to be
dead. but he stayed alive.
i told him that
nothing ever
goes exactly the way we want it to.
“same here,” he said.
Tuesday, November 02, 2021
mmmcdx
tongue-in-cheeky
isn’t it always
nice to
see
everyone so
confidently running around in just their
undergarments (if that), so
ribaldly, here
in the locker room of
this
ymca?
isn’t it always
nice to
see
everyone so
confidently running around in just their
undergarments (if that), so
ribaldly, here
in the locker room of
this
ymca?
Monday, November 01, 2021
mmmcdix
(also/always:)
del is short for delusional
please,
are you
ready yet?
are we
not
ourselves?
i certainly
please,
are you
ready yet?
are we
not
ourselves?
i certainly
am.
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