mmmdcxv

no. 26 – A Thank You Note
              for Love & Humanity

it sounds cliché, it’s
utterly degrading and
it is horribly depressing,
but at some point around
seven years ago now, I
lost faith in humanity.
the journey to this low-
down predicament began
at a slow build, but by 

the time I truly got there,

I was dramatically and 

quite treacherously

snowballing toward

the general direction

of said faithlessness.

and thusly I wandered,
a sullen, lost soul, for 
five years or so. until,
with the suddenness
of a bolt of lightning
before you even realize
a storm is about to arrive,
my faith was swiftly and
wholly restored. it was the

most incredible stroke of
luck that I have yet to
encounter.  and what

happened next, you

might ask?  well, that

is easy: I simply said
hello back at you.

mmmdcxiv

no. 25 – A Thank You Note
              for Pacifism

I’ve never once hit a human, not
even raised my fist to one, ever
since making it past toddler-hood.
But I once threw a glass of water
at a spineless, cowardly liar
of the evilest sort. And it hit
him in the face in such a place
that it rather humorously looked
as if he’d tried to take a sip of it
just as it sped past his nose. And
man, did he ever deserve that!

mmmdcxiii

no. 23 – A Thank You Note
             for Pleasure

if I’ve said it once,
I’ve said it a thou
sand times (and I
may be a naturally
educated, good-
natured, generally
honest, rational
and romantic one
at that, but), I am,
above all else,
a true hedonist.

mmmdcxii

no. 22 – A Thank You Note
              to Planet Earth

I’ve trekked across
this treacherously
gorgeous country,
from coast to coast
or so (relishing each
of the contiguous 48
states; the majority
of them on several
occasions), I sup
pose, if all told, 5
times, and that’s
not counting the
dozen or so that
I’ve traveled at
least across 3/4
stretches made
for visiting home
from the upper
midwest, from
boston and from
san francisco, or
visits to dad’s fam
ily in detroit grow
ing up, or our vac
ation to the nation’s
capitol in 1976 or to
california about 5 years
later. but those 5 full
stretches from the at
lantic to the pacific and
back, only one of them
by airplane, once (and
only one way) in a u-
haul truck by way of
a series of motel 6’s,
and thrice by train,
all the way there
and back, which is
my favorite way that
I’ve ever traveled (a
cross land, at any rate),
and I am here to tell
you that this land,
the land which we
call ours, the land of
the entire world, as
experienced thus far
by these eyes, by all
of the senses, can be so
godawful flat and vast and
boring at times, sure, but
not only is there a won
drous beauty in all of
that vast, boring flat
ness, but when that
terrain gets divided
up, for example by
such varied magni
ficences as the oz
arks, the ouachitas,
the appalachians, the
rockies, the rolling hills
of utah or the endless
mountainous highways
in vermont, the grand
canyon, the metropol
ises and the two-dog
towns, or great nation
al parks like yosemite
and yellowstone, each
of these are wonders to
behold again and again.
there is a deep, mesmeric
beauty in all of it – a texture
and a unique history and a
gorgeousness in every step
or mile or parcel of land on
which you might have found
yourself, whether it be only
once ever, or dozens of
times, be they long or
short bouts studied,
deciphered, and then,
remembered, and I can’t
imagine a square inch
of it to which I would
not return, happily, to
take it all in once again,
to dive ever deeper within
(the great lakes, the creek
banks and riverbanks, the
ponds and the swimming
or fishing lakes that some
times seem to take up most
of whatever great state in which
which they are gloriously embed
ded). and while, for various harsh
reasons, I haven’t driven out of
this city in which I love and have
lived for twenty-two years for
over 7 years now, and although
I lost, before my 50th year
had passed, every single
material item that I called
my own or decided to keep
in my possession nonetheless,
from year to year to year, what
a resounding privilege to have been
so very and variously transported
from the pacific to the atlantic
and back again, etc., the sum
of each and every moment
of every single mile traveled
has been the greatest of
blessings I’ve beheld.
and I shall return,
I have no doubt,
shall plot that
course again
and put that
plot to action,
of course. and
you can bet
that I’ll
be doing
it yet again –
and I won’t
stop at that,
either. and
it’s going
to be soon!

mmmdcxi

no. 21 – A Thank You Note
              for Discipline

I remember this three day weekend
in which I had planned to get so many
things accomplished. I remember it

quite well, in fact, and I’ve a lousy
memory. There was the Friday eve
ning, after getting home from work.

Oh, the things I was going to do on
that Friday night! It had been quite
a strenuous and depressing week at

the office and I was ready for a reju
venating weekend. I got home that
evening, straight from work, played

a game on my phone, or maybe two,
and this I do in the comfort of my bed
in my little coffin-sized apartment, so

what happens next? I fall asleep, of
course. Thus goes Friday night. Sat
urday comes next, right? I got up

early, played a few more games on
my phone, and sort of watched the
light of the day in its various tones

and hues make its way through the
curtains I now have over the one
window that I have in my entire

home. I continued to lie in my
bed as I caught up on the news
of the week. And, as you may

have guessed by now, this I did
from dawn until dusk, which came
so quickly it seemed, but when it

did, I treated it as I had the dealt
with the darkness on almost
each night of the previous

week, which was to quickly
and steadily fall into a deep
sleep. And that was the end

of Saturday. On Sunday, I
went grocery shopping, not
minding the people who were

seemingly out for a wonderful
late spring afternoon on a very
beautiful day on the San Fran

cisco Bay. I got home with my
groceries, and that is about all
I remember of Sunday. Shortly

thereafter, I was back into one
of my after-dusk until dawn
slumbers. And so we now

come to Monday, the actual
holiday. What did I accomp
lish on Monday, you might

ask, or, having already surely
figured it out by now, you need
not say a further word. For here

it is nearly midnight, the end of
the third day of what we expect
antly call a three-day weekend,

and besides these few words
that I type to you here on
this laptop, with the fan

buzzing loudly and blowing the
tiny apartment’s air over and over
again onto my face, I’ve done nothing

of any substance from the top of the
day to what is now the butt end
of it. But I suppose all of this

nothing that I’ve done is exactly
what many of us do, and a good
majority of us surely prefer to do,

on a holiday weekend such as the
one that I find myself ruminating
about a bit morosely tonight.

mmmdcx

no. 20 – A Thank You Note
             to Jennifer Grey

Jennifer Grey dug up her diaries.
They were dusty. They’d been in
a crate for some time. She’d
written them from when she
was fourteen until she was
forty-one. She says about
dancing that she has a very
interesting relationship with
dancing. “It’s all about con
nection. You just feel it,”
and “the thing is if you love
to dance, you have to dance,”
and “If you’re not a good dancer,
it doesn’t fucking matter.” I think
she said fucking. It was bleeped
out of her interview on Seth Myers.
Also, she hates the term diarist. It’s 

embarrassing is what she means,
I guess, to be dubbed a diarist.
To explain, she talks about when
she opened that crate and dusted
off the diaries to read them for
the first time (She had decided
she was going to write a memoir –
she’s a celebrity, so, of course.) –
they were very musty, she says.
She had this surprising realization
that she was the same person at
fourteen that she was at forty-one.
It was almost all silly stuff about
crushes. She was disappointed.
She thought perhaps she’d have
matured during that timeframe,
at least a little. So, anyway, she
wrote the memoir, which gets
good reviews (from a review
on Amazon: “This memoir is
one of a kind. It’s intimate
and honest. Candid and raw.
Nothing is held back…”), and
so she’s come out of her
mostly reclusive life – there’s
hasn’t been a lot of spotlight
since the brouhaha died down
from her infamous nose job,
it seems – to do a press
junket for the book and,
while I was never a fan
of the big movie she did
with Patrick Swayze (to say
the least, and with apologies;
the big dancing movie for me
from that era, or so, was, of
course, Footloose, just so you
know), and by extension of that,
I honestly never paid much attention
to Jennifer Grey (that is, until I realized,
quite surprisingly, that she happens
to be Joel Grey’s daughter (and
it is here that I cannot help
but add that the guy here
with two degrees in theatre
has only seen one show on
Broadway, and I’ve always 

taken great satisfaction and 

pride in the fact that at that 

one single show that I saw
on Broadway, I experienced
the wonder of seeing Mr. Grey
do a little song and dance
number – it was a revival
of Chicago, which also
starred Lilith from
Cheers, I believe,
(and yes, that number
was “Mister Cellophane”),
and that connection, of

Joel to Jennifer, must have
only become known to me
some eight or nine years
ago, I suppose? Any

way, so after tonight,

I’m a big Jennifer

Grey fan because
I can totally
relate to her.
Also, apparently
she and Madonna
were pals, and in
the interview with
Myers she says that
Madonna’s hit “Express
Yourself” was inspired by
Jennifer. So, while I don’t
think Madonna ever wrote a
song inspired by me, there is
a lot that I have in common
with Jennifer Grey. And
that’s cool enough to
give a little shout out,
if you ask me. Which
you didn’t. But I
did, anyway.

mmmdcix

no. 19 – A Thank You Note
              to Prayer

Prayer
don’t
get
me
there.

mmmdcviii

no. 18 – A Thank You Note
              to Pretty Words

Pretty words in any language.
Like:

Schöne Wrote
Palavras bonitas
Lus zoo
Όμορφα λόγια (Ómorfa lógia(
Sheyn verter (שיין ווערטער)
ʻŌlelo Nani
Ładne słowa
Красивые лова (Krasivyye slova)
Từ ngữ đẹp
Palabras bonitas
예쁜 말 (yeppeun mal)
漂亮的話 (Piàoliang dehuà)
Belle parole
அழகான வார்த்தைகள் (Aḻakāṉa vārttaikaḷ)
Hezka slová
Amagambo mez
সুন্দর শব্দ (Sundara śabda)
Lijepe riječi
စကားလုံးလှလှလေးတွေ (hcakarrlone lhalhalayytway)
Әдемі сөздер (Ädemi sözder)
Paraules Boniques
सुंदर शब्द (sundar shabd)
Cuvinte frumoase
Mooi woorde
Faclan Bòidheac
Erayada Quruxda Badan
Керемет сөздөр (Keremet sözdör)
Matahum nga mga Pulong
Mantswe a Matle
Vackra ord
Mooie woorden
Maneno Mazri
Матур сүзләр
Belaj vortoj
Gražūs žodžiai
کلمات زیب
Awọn ọrọ lẹwaคำสวย (Khả s̄wy)
સુંદર શબ્દો (Sundara śabdō)
Geiriau Pretty
Хөөрхөн үгс (Khöörkhön ügs)
Bèl Mo
Teny tsara tarehy
Pretty words

You didn’t expect me to list
them all, did you? Right here?
Who’s to say what words might
be pretty to you? Only you, I
suppose. And how might your
pretty compare to my pretty?
Wouldn’t the beauty of the sound
of words vary wildly among cultures,
not to mention, as I just said above,
among individuals? What if every
word and every language is pretty
to me. I believe this must be true
if my faculties are still in order.
One might spend a lifetime seek
ing out all of the pretty words in
the world and find only a tiny por

tion of them, don’t you think?

mmmdcvii

no. 17 – A Thank You Note
              for Contradictions

Sure, it’s nice and even a big relief
to get straightforward talk, under
standable personality, mood swings
that have logic, instructions that are
easy to follow to a conclusion, to rec
oncile a budget or a checking or cred
it card account. But, oh the allure of
mystery, of something or someone
that makes no sense at all, at least
at first; that takes a lot of work fig
uring out. And to read a book that
has you backtracking and rereading
previous pages to see how you must
have missed something because what?!
Or that mesmerizing quality when you
first meet someone who has that certain
chemistry you’re always looking for, and
you look into their eyes and there are all
sorts of contradictions, and you wonder
is he just teasing, is he flat-out lying, is
this a real true-to-the-facts story with
which he’s regaling you, luring you in
almost inconceivably, irretrievably.
And then you look closer, once
you’re in the light of day, at
those tricky, tantalizing eyes
that drew you in for so many
hours the night before, and
that’s when you get it,
almost literally (or maybe
you do, literally) pop your
noggin with the palm of
your hand as in Now I
get it; this makes total
sense! His eyes are,
no lie, two completely
different colors. And
you’re a Gemini, to boot.
When you had glumly made
your way to the nightclub the
evening before, a more fortuitous
turn of events could have scarcely
been envisioned.

mmmdcvi

no. 16 – A Thank You Note
              to a Few Kind Words

How can I even begin to thank you
for these? Their power is indescribable,
how just a few words, sometimes it could
be from a perfect stranger, sometimes from
the one person you believe to be the cause
of let’s say a month of worries, at least, can
with but a moment of attention along with a
few peaceful words, perhaps they are recon
ciliatory, perhaps just complimentary, some
times it might just be “Hey, how are you
doing in here, fella?!” can in one fell swoop
eliminate all of your woes. You tell yourself
through it all to think positively. You promise
yourself you’re going to make this day a beau
tiful experience. You swear that in order to
displace anxiety and grief and despondence
that you’ll be gracious and full of gratitude.
And sometimes it works. Sometimes it does
actually work. But most often it doesn’t. And
then out of nowhere you become the recipient
of a few kind words, directed at you, sometimes
they are all but innocuous. And as your hero ex
its your office, or your room, or as you pass each
other after the brief exchange, say, on a sidewalk,
or at the grocery store or at Target, having been
at first taken aback that you’ve run into a friend
or acquaintance, or bristling at first because a
stranger has approached and begun to speak –
when you go your separate ways, a smile crawls
all the way across your face and you feel a wave
of relief as whatever that’s crept into your system
and sort of rotted there for however long its been
gets somehow released by an exhalation or two
through that broadening smile, and life is good
again, it’s a beautiful day, you feel your mojo
and your motivation seeping back and there’s
an electricity inside of you that you’ve missed
for too long, and there’s a bounce in your step
that you thought you lost thanks to that ache
in the bottom of your back that you somehow
no longer feel . . . .

mmmdcv

no. 15 – A Thank You Note
              to Acid Reflux
              and Google

I’m no doctor, but my
initials do happen to

be “Dr. C.” So here
is a little story that

proves that my initials
a more than a little bit

poignant. I do not
generally awaken to

find that I’m drowning.
But that is precisely

what I felt was hap
pening when I woke

up this morning, just
a few short minutes ago.

It seemed at first as if
I had awoken from some

sort of coughing,
wheezing, fever

dream in which I had
been for at least an

hour. So when I
did finally come to,

I felt like each
attempted ex

halation, each
burning cough,

might be my
last. And what

a last breath
that might be.

So I looked it
up. Apparently,

It’s pretty un
common to die

from inhaling
acid reflux.

Chronic acid
reflux (and I

haven’t read
enough yet to

know whether
or not this is a

thing I actually
suffer from – nor

what makes it
chronic? If it

happens a lot, I
figure it’s chronic;

that seems a logical
supposition.) is called

GERD. No idea what
that stands for, but

it must be an acronym
because it’s noted here

several times all caps.
I scroll further down to

make the real disco
very, though: “A per

son may suddenly
awaken feeling as

though they are suf
focating.” This sounds,

from what I can tell, like
quite an entirely separate

issue than inhaling bile
that roils up the wind

pipe and into the lungs,
right? And it is. How

ever, and it says it
right here, in bold,

“It also is often related
to GERD.” Hmm. Well,

it turns out that this ail
ment is called laryngospasm.

And furthermore I’ve experi
enced this particular phenom

enon, and am now here to
tell you, as far back as I can

remember. It has happened
as little as perhaps once or

twice a year to maybe 10 or
15 times a month. “The things

you learn when you do a bit
of research,” I think. And

I realize that by now, I am
breathing a whole lot easier.

mmmdciv

no. 14 – A Thank You Note to the Will, the
              Initiative and the Discipline to
              Bring Palpable, Seeable and
              Fruitful Accomplishments into
              This World on an Ongoing Basis

It’s perfectly normal and okay to feel pride
at what you’ve clearly done in this world,
if what you’ve done has brought more
positive than negative into the atmos
phere of this godforsaken earth. But
is it pride that says when you say to
yourself “Look at this!” (and, for real,
“Look at this!”) Or is it just that impera
tive means of motivation that will move
you over the hump and to the com

pletion of your next great piece.

mmmdciii

no. 12 – A Thank You Note
              to Difficult Times

In general, I’ve seen a lifetime
of, by all appearances, as far
as I can surmise, a long set of
progression in which there is
three steps forward, followed
inevitably by about two steps
back. This is not a mathematic
al absolute, more in a bit on 

how this is definitely not one 

one of those times now, but it
has been something I have
lived long enough to come to
appreciate, particularly during
the times in which the whole
world seems to be stepping
backwards. I guess if this is
actually a note of appreciation,
it is sent not to faith, based
upon the logic of my own per
sonal history. I could give co
untless examples. Or point to
gay strides, which, in my life
time, has been more of a spr
int (in general, and, once ag

ain, there will be more about

how this unfortunately has
changed in my most modern
existence), with little to no
backwards movement at all.
Sure, there was the Prop 8
punch in the gut, and was it
ever (a punch in the gut).
That was steps backwards,
but it did not last long,
and it never went any
further back than we al
ready were only relative
moments ago. But the
punch in the gut was
simultaneous with the
election of our first pres
ident of color, a stupen
dous step forward. These
things have always tended
to even out. In my lifetime.
So, for the purposes of this
letter of appreciation, the a
formentioned “difficult times”
would be those timeframes
during which the steps back
ward were being taken with

the quick bounce of steps for

ward. One could argue that 

backwards and forwards are 

matters of opinion of course. 

And I confess that I have 

no idea what you, the indi
vidual to whom I’m add

ressing this note, feel is
moving backwards versus
moving forwards. So let
met clarify this. If you
are of a general opinion
that the last few years
haven’t simply been the
difficult times when the
two steps backwards are
transpiring and we’re just
waiting around, biting our
nails, all antsy with angst
and anxiety awaiting the
pivot back to forward,
back toward progress,
knowing full well that
it will inevitably come
. . .? Well, let me be
fervently clear when I
say that what we are
in the middle of now is
definitely NOT one of
those traditional dif
ficult times. I appre
ciate the determina
tion and the solidif
ication of values
that those bygone
difficult times gave
me. But this, this,
my friend, and I do
hope you are my
friend and can re
late to what I have
to say here, this is
not a difficult time
for which I’m grate
ful. This is way too
many steps back, I
fear. I miss and do
very much apprec
iate the difficult
times of yesteryear.
I hope you do, too.
Enough to make a
quorum, and give
me faith that we’ll
make our way back
to a big leap in pro
gress, followed by 

a bit of a backlash,

perhaps, but always
followed soon enough,
by another big leap

forward.

mmmdcii

no. 11 – A Thank You Note
             to S.O.S., 9-1-1 and
             Fleeting Employment

I am thinking that, as an
assistant who is on the
verge of having a missing
mouses breakdown, any
thing I might could do to
assist you is the answer
to my help with a
question mark.

mmmdci

no. 10 – A Thank You Note
             to Non Sequiturs

Ed had such dramatic flair. But
on the other hand, as many say,
there just wasn’t any there there.

mmmdc

no. 8 – A Thank You Note
           to Very Long Kisses

Having had the misfortune of several
years without any of these sessions,
and yet having experienced thereafter

and ever since such a lovely sum of
seemingly endless, warm, happy
durations of lips pressed onto
lips, and with a partner other
wise entwined and mobile
(legs, arms, spine, etc.),
what effervescent mem
ories, and what hell-bent
desire burns in me to know
first-hand that penultimate
flurry of ecstasy again. A
cessation of such sensations
might be just the thing to keep
one alive in such times as these,
not just a drought but a prolifera
tion of disastrous distancing and
disconnections that have led to such
a dizzying, fogheaded retreat that
leads me further and further along
this bleak path toward some solitary
center. And what if I find my way
there, wending through a thorn-
filled muck? What if I reach my
very center? Does one have
it in him to then turn around
and find a way out again?
And not only out of me
but out the door and
onto, where, say, a
dancefloor, say,
Peru, say, I
have arr
ived at the
airport and would
I be on time, would I
even be, as in have yet
to kick the bucket? I
used to travel the world.
I used to be a cartographer.
What else might be pressed
softly by a pair of lips spending
an evening in each other’s comp
any? And that is to say nothing
of the tongue. How to keep these
of my own uncracked, and not yet
casketed, before they see such
borders and such boundaries
once again explode?

mmmdxcix

no. 7 – A Thank You Note to
            Delusions of Grandeur

                                       Some nights
     I’d give anything for a casual embrace.
     Meet someone on subway or street

     corner & live together forever.
                                    —Lewis Warsh

This is an appreciation of having a sense
of purpose. A particular purpose. I’d
rather not delve too deeply into this
sense for fear of succumbing to the
silliness of it, the ridiculousness of
what is really not just purpose –
I could say an elevated or higher
purpose, or come right out with
the notion that I feel like I’ve
been put here for a reason.
That I’ve a duty to perform
this reason, to see it through
to its end, best as I can. Which
means I believe in my pumped up,
egomaniacal self. And this is imp
ortant. How else would these lofty
notions be swirling around so? Sure,
I should be putting together better
strategies; I should have better than
a six-month or so plan that I never
quite get into the first month of. I
don’t even think I have all of the
answers, or even most of them.
But don’t I have a few of the
questions? Doesn’t it go a
bit beyond that? Why
preach for hour upon
hour, red-faced, in
support of anything,
if I don’t believe in
it? And purport to
listen intently to
my red-faced
companion, 

the two of us 

growing more 

and more adamant?

I’ve revised my plan
over and over again. And

over the years, it has been

honed down to just one word, 

all else seeming superfluous: 

listening. That’ll teach them! 

I am but a receptacle with no 

action. A barrel of knowledge with
nothing doing. A mere suggestion box
never once opened. This is when one
stops being a deity. “You’re doing well,
Del!” Sit. Breathe. Take a break for a
couple of years. Then, if still doing 

well, start all over again. 

Remember, though, 

there is only one life
and only one beginning. 

I’ll tell you when I get there.

mmmdxcviii

no. 5 – A Thank You Note
            to the Glass Half Full

Let’s not, however, get side-
tracked by negativity. The
impulse to give thanks does
not come from such a del
eterious source. One thing
that might be said to bring
it all about is having about
oneself a general optimism,
happy begetting happy, etc.,
so from wherever this part
icular characteristic (and it is
within me) might have derived
(and I have my own ideas, in
fact, I’m pretty certain that it
isn’t mere genetics, but in my
case, I do so much believe, a
certain rebellion or repulsion
of the opposite, being as sur
rounded as I was by it from
the tender ages and at least
until I left for college), I feel
quite lucky to have picked it
up, this veritable spring that
from so deep within must
keep me with at least a
toe or two yet in my
youth and what
comes from it
shines a light
upon the day
or, say, the
night, my
path ahead
always a bit
less indeter
minate, yet
dimmer still
than it once
was, let’s say,
but still less
clouded and
less bleak
than most
times that,

from or up

on me, have

shone more 

light.

mmmdxcvii

no. 4 – A Thank You Note To
            Liberty (Lost & Found)

If we happen to cross paths
without a hello, with no wave
of recognition, if I pretend not
to notice, thinking, somewhat
sourly, “old friend,” behind a
furrowed veil of older skin with
in which I might be flushed all
of a sudden with misbegotten
giddiness, memories, a voice
speaking, in reverse, within,
inwardly, that says “what
nonsense!” and says “you
old fool!” . . . .

If who you see, should your eyes
be let go, to settle for a bit up
on this person that is me (and 

was) seems almost recognizable 

save a certain grim and overbear

ing emptiness upon my sagging 

slab of face, as if a curtain limp

ly furled right at the precipice 

of a cold and empty stage,
its aura (I once had one
and did it ever glow; or
else I think it did—do
you remember?)—an
aura. It shone as
if my soul had
some great
news to tell . . . .

If this look that I now
portray disturbs you in
the least or is unsettling
and/or (furthermore)
should it generate if
but a faint, a tiny
feeling, say, of
pain, as if a
pin too dull had
set about to prick
you in the heart,
a feeling, a pain,
but not remorse,
I do not wish you
ill, of course, for
surely the short
purpose left in me
was made corrupt by
no-fault tragedy (an
act of God, they say),
or the blame I’ve placed
for these declining years
upon myself was never mine
nor was it ever yours . . . .

I have known much more
liberty than this. In fact,
have I known even less?
I must confess I have.
But that which you see
emptied of me is gone
for lack of it, of liberty,
I mean, the sweet
thirst-quenching
freedom I once
knew when I knew
you, or thought I did,
and you convincingly (I
did not even think to doubt—
how much time passed from
when we met must it have
taken to get there; I am
summarily a skeptic, as
you know. Or did you
ever?), and well, if not
enough; and you knew me.

mmmdxcvi

no. 3 – A Thank You Note to Not
            Becoming a Disappointed
           (and Disappointing) Old Man

granted, this note of gratitude
is premature, at best; perhaps
it verges on the fantastical.
however, even if the chances
of a positive outcome are
debatable, i figure that this
small attempt at facing inev
itability with such a forced
and focused attitude might
possibly help getting from
here to there be a bit more
sustainable and enduring —
if not a degree or so more
pleasant — than any alter
native perspectives might.
here’s to hoping that’ll be
the general trend, anyway.

mmmdxcv

no. 2 – A Thank You Note
            to Poetry

I’m not known for my criminal
work. I’m not known for much
of anything. One of those state
ments is true and one of those
statements is false. Which is
which?

Hint: Who knows anyone?
Hint: What do you know?
Who do you know? I know,
I know, I’m either tamper
ing with evidence or lead
ing the witness. But what
are we witnessing? And
can I get an amen?

The question is: What are
you witnessing? Is it an
optical illusion? Is this
sleight of hand? In gen
eral, leading questions
are not allowed during
the direct examination
of a witness. However,
they are allowed during

Cross-examination.

mmmdxciv

no. 1 – A Thank You Note to
            Bones & Genes & Milk

I come from a long line of
sturdy frames, nice arch
itecture: I’m talking about
my thus far unbreakable
bones. And a genetic pre
disposition for the taste of
milk to quench a thirst, or
just about anytime other
wise, for that matter.
Milk. It really slakes a
thirst.  Plenty of personal
evidence shows that a
tall, singular glass (or 2)
can function nicely as a
complete meal. I have
popped my noggin onto
the low-hanging arch of
a bus’ front entrance
maybe a total of ten
times at maximum
hoppity-skippity im
pact, it’s true – it
should be said, given
I’m spreading so much
truth, that I am quite
a clumsy dude – and
each time I’d stand
back upright, and
kind of slink up the
bus entrance steps
and into my seat,
with nothing but a
little bump atop my
head. There are
similar endings to
similar events from
toddler-dom to pre
sent. Thanks, for
example, to a yappy
nipper and an overly
afeared colt that I hap
pened to be atop, I’ve
shot straight up into the
sky and – I’m told in seem
ingly slow motion – flipped
a one-eighty at the apex
and bolted head down into
the ground, which happened
to be covered in gravel at
that particular spot, scaring
“the living shit” out of my
dad, who quickly hopped
off the mare and carried
me home where I was
given quite a bit of att
ention for naught but
another bump on my
head. I’ve walked
full speed into doors,
be they glass or wood
en, the porch door of
the home in which I
was raised (several
times), bathroom
doors, mall entranc
es, pasture gates and
pasture fences. I’ve
had my big toe get
caught between
the chain and gear
of my bicycle once,
and spun nearly all
the way back out
again before even
realizing what a
pickle I’d gotten
myself into, and
later the same eve
ning received five
stitches over the
top of said toe
while dad and
the doctor shook
their heads back
and forth in awe
of only the skin
being broken. I’ve
hammered thumbs
and forefingers, had
fingers slammed into
doors and caught in
electrically raised
car windows, so
snug I thought
surely they’d pop
right off my
hand and out
onto the inter
state, but never,
not even once,
has any crazy
clumsy collision
or accident of
such proportions
caused anything
but broken skin
or a lump on the
skull or bit of
discoloration
that quickly
faded away,
and here I
am a month
away from
double nick
els, never
having worn
a cast, or bro
ken even a pink
ie. And as far as
I’m concerned,
that’s a whole
lot for which to
be thankful.

mmmdxciii

Prelude to Some Thank You Notes

The world can be such a nightmare.
And this life of mine has surely been
quite the uphill battle back to some
semblance over the past half dozen
years. Five years ago today I was
kicked to the streets, where I mostly
remained for almost two years. And
I started a new job recently; one I’d
love to keep, but one in which I was
hired as a fill-in, a temp—a contract
job. I’d been employee at nothing

but gigs that quickly turned out to
be, if not immediately begun, as
full-time positions all my working
life until about 12 years ago, when
I parted ways with a job and the
man for whom I’d worked for ten
solid years, as he transitioned, we
transitioned, through three jobs,
each more “elevated” than the
previous. After that, I had the

luxury of taking a couple of years

off, began to look again during
what turned out to be a recession,
wherein most all employment in
my profession was contractual,
short-term, and I have been
niched into that square peg 

of work ever since, it seems.
Anyway, there are a lot of
things that can quite easily
get me down, whether simply
psychologically, or due to lit
eral downtrodden, penny-
pinching circumstances.
What is there to do that
might get me, and finally,
back over the hump and
up into a life-space within
which I feel more comfort
able, that seems more nat
ural and less derogatory if
not plain torturous? Well,
something that works for
me is to focus on ways in
which I can be thankful.
It turns out, through even
the worst of the times I’ve
found myself in, there are
always plenty of things for
which I have a full heart
of gratitude. Thus begins
what shall be a set of me
anderings over things for
which I am thankful.
Like you, of course.
Here’s to giving
thanks for a few
days with gusto.
Kindly stay tuned.
Or simply come
back at your
leisure. I
don’t seem
to be going
away. Thank
fully (for me,

although it

is surely a

generically 

debatable

notion), 

at least
in here, 

I do go on 

and on and on.

mmmdxcii

Panic, Don’t Fail Me Now

I miss Elvis. Oh, my eye, 

my hyperbolized—my fanta
sized—mother, my heart
broken (stolen?) reality,
oh, Mom! Is this (really?)
what it’s like? A sort of
tongue-in-cheek, perjor
ative call to arms?

I read the news today—
oh, boy. . . .

So what do I now have
in his stead? It appears
to be a slice of chocolate
cake with strawberry icing.
Or else cherry icing? The
intent of it, the calendar
that hangs upon my wall,
like the gregorian calen
dar itself. . . .

I am to provide a sense
of structure, of normalcy
and steadfastness.

The higher purpose of
any civil rights move
ment is to incite move
ment toward an equal
ity, toward an ideal,
an ideal set of civil
rights, true or false?
It isn’t to. . . .

Wake up! Walk!
Three steps for
ward, two steps
backward.

I’d rather give my
self up for a mere
tidbit of reparation
than be the math
ematician who’s in
charge of summing
up all of our steps
backward and for
ward, only to sur
mize regression.

Say it ain’t so, Joe!

When the struggles
are this idiotic. When,
in summation, I’m
dumb as a bum in
a battle am I, cog
in the wheel of a
civilization that’s
just been slung
such a wrench.

At the burial
ground of
battle-cries,
one of us
has to start
shoveling.

Oh, Mom. Oh,
Mom, Oh, Mom,
Oh, Mom, Oh
Mom, I could
have done you
so much better.

mmmdxci

Meanwhile,

no disrespect to
God, I found my
place of innocence
on the dancefloor.

Would you believe
me if I told you that
no one believes me?
Except how was I to

know, perception and
misperception being
what they are: each
other and everything?

mmmdxc

A Curt Review of the Evening

We are no cinematic
adventure, true or
false? I’d say false,
if ever there was one,
a cinematic adventure,
that is; and you might
probably beg to differ.
And who cares? After
all, we’re just a couple

of critics. But if you
ask me (and you
didn’t—)(—mind
you, I’m not here
to apologize). . . . But.
If you were to ask me.
What I’d say is that ours
is a show that should most
definitely be taken on the
road. Indefinitely. If for
no better reason than
to spread those vivid,
real-time, and they lived
happily ever afters out

as far and wide as
the Great Divide.

Which,
these days, as we
both well know, is
about as far and
about as wide as
anything could
possibly get.

mmmdlxxxix

Altogether Somehow Less Bitter Than Sweet

     I/Think it is the writing that makes/Me sick.
                                          —Cedar Sigo

I suggest to most anyone
that I have a lousy memory,
and I believe this to be true.
But, say, when I’m asked to
regurgitate what I’ve been
doing all day, or for any dur
ation, I most often reach a
very solid and anxiety-in
ducing blank, unable to be
gin to even explain what it
was I was just a moment
ago doing. That doesn’t
mean, though, that I’m
not so often, if not rather
incessantly, flooded with
memories. And some of
those memories seem to
cloud my brain more com
pletely than others. For
example, dad’s cattle
that were kept up Pine
Mountain when I was
just old enough to re
member anything, or
to bring that memory
with me this far, any
way. These, my first
cattle and pine mem
ories, on Grandpa’s
coniferous land, which
would soon be sold, so
that the cows, poor
things (or maybe not,
I suppose I couldn’t
at all judge such bo
vine notions), were
nomads, moving from
pasture to pasture,
in Franklin County
and beyond – Logan,
Sebastian, etc. – count
ies with names all too
similar to the names
of all of those Lolita-
esque, teenage lovers
one could find in almost
any of the heady gay
novels of the 80’s or
90’s, which were al
ways so dreary and
full of the plague,
and they were the
same names that
would appear as
the names of char
acters in those tv
series that began
to pop up not too
long afterward,
the ones with the
hypersexual char
acters wherein the
teen-esque drama
would mostly trans
pire on expansive
dancefloors off
of which (and
through the
television set)
us gawkers could
swear we could lit
erally smell the ec
stasy emanating.
These televisions
had always been
fortuitously hooked
up in some messy
way (and illicitly,
most usually) to
an unknowing
neighbor’s cable
box, or else to one
of those newfangled
dishes that started
popping up on apart
ment roofs everywhere.
Not by me, though – I
was never the hacker
in any of my clicks.
But I would at least
occasionally gawk at
these more life-affirm
ing, soap-sud shows.
These were suddenly
happier times. Some
how. It was as if there
was a collectively con
scious decision. But
death was still a stench
that just could not be
escaped, much as the
smell of the pine trees
that lined the trail that
I’d walk with my dad
halfway up Pine Mount
ain to call the few (but
always growing number)
of cows down to be fed.
Somehow this admixture

of pine and cowpies and
ecstasy and death still
lingers with me, so that
I can close my eyes and
take a long and deep
breath, and there they
are, all within me, I’m
smelling them alto
gether and also in
dividually. I can
pick each out.
Which is hardly un
pleasant. It’s just
inescapable, this
olfactory nostalgia
that fills my nose
for days on end
sometimes. And
by the time the
air is cleared, or
I’m filled with new
aromas, be they
from the present
or the past, that
same mix is back,
a blast from the
past that remains
present, with pro
mises of reprisal,
making home
out of anywhere
and everywhere.

mmmdlxxxviii

Extended Love Notes Flown Southward

“Can you get more specific,” said the attorney,
my first, who wasn’t an actual attorney, just
something of an advocate, but I’d avoided
such things for over half a century, except

when schmoozing in board rooms, schmoozing
of the most naïve and hunky-dory kind, nothing
improper about schmoozing, or that’s what they
teach us in the textbooks, I was never comfor

table schmoozing. An “advocate,” she called
herself, with “over 25 years” of dealing with
the folks down at general assistance. “So,
these folks, the ones we’re taught are our

advocates, they’re actually . . . evil?” I ask,
a bit lost in space, a bit more lost in space
than usual. There was a pause, I think, and
so it was a dramatic one, by all means, until

she kind of quietly said (the most calm portion
of the hour and a half-long conversation), “Yeah,
they’re evil.” Long, extended silence. Which was
quite a change from one of us steamrolling the

words of the other, something I know I do all the
time when I get a bit too excited, something she
did because she’s not an attorney but an advocate
working with the folks who deal with the folks down

at general assistance, day in, day out. It was one
of those draining “Aha!” moments. At least for me,
surely not for her, Sabrina was her name, no, surely 

not for Sabrina, because she’s been doing this for 

25 years, right? She knows the idiosyncrasies of
how to handle these things, of how to fight them,
even though she’s not a real lawyer. I had just
been doing what I was told to do, answering the

questions honestly, saying everything I thought
relevant. But it turns out that what’s relevant
has nothing to do with how I was wronged, how
I was lied to, that simply doesn’t matter. It has

nothing to do with the fact that everyone on the
other end of the phone down at general assistance
kept repeating the same lie, which, upon being
repeated and repeated, despite the fact that it

was absolutely untrue, was, according to my
advocate-not-attorney, and here I’m not sure
exactly whether she, well, she kept asking me
why I did that, what they said I did, that I didn’t

do, over and over she asked me that. And I’d
tell her no, nothing of the sort, and then I’d
say what I said instead, and then what they
each had told me, the promises I’d gotten from

all of these people on the other end of the phone
that were simply not going to happen. Sabrina
was completely uninterested in this part. I’d
been coerced this morning into, well, I’m not

even sure. I was just handed a phone, told
what to say. This before I met over the
phone my first and only advocate-not-
attorney. How helpless I felt. I had

followed their every request. I had
double-checked and triple-checked
that I was doing things correctly, in
such a way that when I showed up

today I’d get my check. There was
no check. Will there ever be one?
It was promised? But yet. Why
was I spending half the day speaking

with Sabrina, my advocate-not-attorney,
who answered when I was given the number
for legal aid and told I needed to speak with
an attorney; that that will help? Will she? Or

will I, at some point, finally break, finally
realize that everyone is evil, that I’m just
performing whatever I’m told for kicks, and
not my own, but somebody else’s? Whose I wonder?

mmmdlxxxvii

Something I Might Be Good At

                I feel as in bethlehem
     please police blotter
                 —Bernadette Mayer

At first there was only
dreamscape (from which
I’d escape or to which 

I’d escape, depending).

Either way, I’d wake
up with all of the an
swers to every prob
lem. The solutions,

so clear, would always
disappear. Where are
my answers? Where
did they go? I’d fran

tically wonder, fumb
ling around until I
could (And did! And
did!) make my way

back to the sleep,
and around and
back around the
cycle would go

with me slipping
like a ghost through
a stage’s lit scrim.
And so yet it goes,

it turns out, this
life, this endless
entering and exit
ing. But I am only

ever but moment
arily at the thresh
hold – and it’s only
when there that I

get but a glimpse
of what is. And
only from there
it would seem

could I (if only
I could) hurdle,
take off like a
rocket at what

might be (if
only). Already,
however, I’m
plumb through

the curtain and
anxious to curtsy
or bow – and what
a performance we

must have just
given! Succomb
ing to all the app
lause and ovation

the cyclical quest
is all but derailed.
Does this happen
each evening? I

grasp for some
meaning, Does
it happen each
morning? I’m

dizzy with quest
ioning when and
how. And it takes
me from one to

the other to find
out; to find it: my
room full of raptur
ous lovers, all over

(and over and over)
                    again.

mmmdlxxxvi

Song of Canned Cannibal

These ranchers are
nonetheless jolly, which,
whose noses turned in
rancor, rank in memory
nothing of the stinker
we expect. Oh, honey-
bush, you just hush.
Like these two fans
blowing at each other
all the way until dawn
and back again, we flip
ourselves over and around,
over and around this world
of blood-covered veneer.
It’s a queer world, you
and me and our blood-
curdling glee, holding
onto each other’s heads
for dear life, at least,
after all, until our
mottled carrion
becomes the
dinner that
we boiled
from break
fast all the
way through
lunch.

mmmdlxxxv

The Scourge of Contentment
Is a Sweaty Nutcracker

My content is not satisfied
but it was once, true or
false? Turns out, it’s a
strange and beautiful
world, this all-too-
happening planet.
I am intent upon
taking you some
where. Is the
journey pleasant?
Please fill in the blank.
Are your customers sat
isfied? I mean, I know
you’d never fill out the
survey (I told our market
ing guys to just take you
off the list, but I know
when you receive them
in your bloated inbox –
I get pinged every single
time) because some things
work and some things do not.
And then we’re down to the
specifics and it’s like we’re
living that feeling of help
lessness all over again.
And who wants to do that?
Oh, I kvetch. I bitch and
moan. And, you know,
what if I actually believe
that I provide fairly un
wavering top-notch
customer service
and yet – let’s face it,
the truth about any sat
isfaction I do or do not
provide lies within the
skulls and the chest
cavities of others.
I’ve been working on
my presentation. Half
a century mingling amongst
humanity, what a sullen word,
amongst the citizenry, almost
entirely unable to portray any
one but someone you can’t help
but like, is interesting, is complex,
slightly mischievous, at ease
with the performed efficacy of
being earnest, knowing when
to wall up and when to be too
revealing – right! No matter
that the entire script is written
and performed to break down
everything; that fourth wall
doth confuse, doth skew the
portrayal into something so
other that it’s often the opp
osite of authorial intent.
“This ain’t me you see,”
I want to scream at you
all, every last one of you.
But I’m much more left-
brained than my passion
must (might? probably
does not in the least) con
vey; I can do that math.
The sum of me has
very little to do with
who I think I am.
But if I never
meet the guy
who lives inside
my skin, it won’t
be because I did
not try. Nope. I
figure, until or
unless I’m pro
vided a more
enticing distrac
tion, if I never
crack the nut
that finally re
veals my very
essence, I will
surely have
died trying.