mmmdclxxvi

Aspiration

Scroll back to
about a hundred
years ago. I thought
I saw you perspiring.

This was before the
Big Bang. Now, as
I stare into space.
Or at the jar

full of decayed
fruit. One might
think. What with
all of the con

cupiscence. A still
life. What about us?

mmmdclxxv

The Disengagement Dance

I tend these
days to go
about my
business,
my routine,
in fits and
starts and
with such
swoop and
such swerve
just to get
out of the
way of
humanity
all the while
hungry for
anything
that might
resemble
social inter
action. It’s
such a pickle
of a problem,
this conflicting
push and pull
towards and
away from
engagement,
that if I find
myself think
ing on it as I
pinball my way
through people
getting from
wherever I was
to wherever I
am going, I
become so
overwhelmed
by the imposs
ibility of it all
that sometimes
my dizzying dance
will come to a sudden
standstill. And in
that frozen
state this
dilemma
will swell
within me
until I be
come so
saturated
with this
conflict—
this push
and pull I
feel with
those with
whom I
perform
this daily
topsy-turvy
choreography—
that it dominates,
it takes me over,
filling me with
such vertigo that
it is all I can do to
remain standing
in that wobbly
state, my two
feet glued to
the ground,
the world
blurrily
swirling
around
about me.
Eventually,
I find com
fort in the
awareness
that I have
been here
before, and
that soon
again, I’ll
somehow
be able to
lift a foot
and take
a step in
hopes to
move
again
towards
whatever
my next
destination
will be. And
that direction,
ever forward,
just up ahead,
is the only
direction
that exists,
is the very
one that
got me
here in
the first
place,
despite
all of the
twisting
and turn
ing and
veering.
And then
I’m off
again,
dancing
erratically,
as I always
do, with you
and you and
you and . . . .

mmmdclxxiv

Overstuffed

“Who’s that
sad clown
they can
never
quite
stuff
down
the barrel
of the circus
cannon?”

“Why that’s
me, of course.”

mmmdclxxiii

Coin versus Catfish

I come from a family of
leisurely fisherfolk, so
even before I was born

I’d been cast by my folks 

and theirs and so on as the 

little buster who reels in the 

catch.  And so I was placed in 

all of the fishiest high-falutin’ 

perches known to exist by any

in the land of my youth, The 

Natural State, formerly nick

named, unnaturally, the Land

of Opportunity.  I picture myself,

peering as I would down the 

current from the banks of the 

Arkansas River, trying to en

vision the impossible to tell: 

whether or not any yellow-

gilled catfish were slithering 

along the riverbed floor in

this, a sport, which, like most,

I disliked, and yet into which I’d

be coerced: the grueling hours 

of minnow and worm finger-

puncturing activity.  I’d try hard 

to concoct ways to make such 

days go swiftly when stuck in this 

eternal family ritual.  But to no 

avail.  In fact, the harder I’d try, 

the longer the day would become.

A diversion was crucial, however,
was my heroic version of divining, 

which was another sport practiced,

and just as religiously, in those parts:
dowsing with a twin-forked twig 

(also a yawn-fest, in my opinion). 

In retrospect, there was a more
elevated hobby, that was popular 

thereabouts, if but a bit more 

modern, that swept my imagination,
and it, too, was performed quite
often along the same riverbanks

and creek beds where I’d spend
many a lamented weekend.  It
was most ordinarily performed 

by elderly numismatists, retirees
who’d get antsy if sunk in their 

La-Z-Boys for longer in duration 

than an episode of Wheel of Fortune. 

Now this was a worthy means of an
escape, I would think, as I sat in 

the boat.  For the men, it was 

solitary; no kids, grandkids
or wives would ever be seen 

accompanying.  These men
reminded me of zombies playing
miniature golf, but in slow motion 

and without any golf balls.  They’d 

swing those weird ground-hovering
machines to the left and to the right,

back and then forth and occasionally

directly in front of their slow-dancing 

gait, with that weird-wiggled walk that 

the undead, as depicted back then on

teevee, would have.  In those days,

metal detectors appeared in abun

dance, as if out of nowhere, and I 

was in awe.  I’d so rather have

been in what we called the city 

playing a round or three of 

miniature golf.  Occasionally
I’d get lucky enough, between

between reeling in minnows and
worms, of witnessing one of these 

grandpa zombies bend over, reach 

down, and pick up something, 

which’d be wiped a bit by a hand

kerchief and then glimmer at me 

for a moment before it disappeared

into a pocket.  And I can tell you for 

certain that, if given the chance, I’d

have traded my rod and my reel 

in a heartbeat for one of those gizmos

that looked like a weed whacker

attached to a UFO (and made all kinds

of UFO noises).  Instead, I was stuck
in a boat or on the bank under a 

glaring sun counting every second
until I’d finally hear “Let’s reel 

’em all in,” which I’d gleefully 

do, and help hitch up the boat

before hopping up into the cab

of the pickup for the ride back

home, during which I’d be 

nothing but fidgety and hungry, 

dreaming of what I would find 

in the sand or the soil if instead
of wasting my time with a rod 

and a reel trying to lure in a 

slippery fish I’d have had in my 

grip a metal detector, scooping 

up loot.  And getting rich, to boot.

mmmdclxxii

Haven’t Ya Heard?

there are no more words.
this is the bunk what
happens, ya hear?
when the slishity-slosh
has disruptured your ear.
there ain’t no more god
damned words left, muh
dear. wah-wawa woogie
maloogie, mah dear.
au revoir, au revoir,
midnight’s anon. and
sputnik’s an adjective,
zozo’s a gown. the
cause of this mess is
such a sensationless
hokissy pokissy
coo coo kachoo. a
typical word’s worth
a fortune, you know?
a typical fortune’s
atypical person and
persons like word
herds have over pop
pop—that’s overpop
popladed reverdeetop—
stimladed zoopa di
zeemu lacra an ab
ra skidabra alacra
da abra scab kidabra—
i mean stutter stutter o
verdapopple atay. stinko
beano end o’ pinko
weigh up on toppa
duh brinkitty brink.

mmmdclxxi

Can’t Speak

My tongue’s
become
numb rubber.

Who knew
a day like
this might

come? The
world goes
on and on

without
me—and
yet I sit

right
smack
dab in it,

only I’m
struck
dumb.

No words.
And my
tongue

numb.
No spark,
no sputter.

Just unsung
birds, forgot
ten names.

The city
leaves my
mouth like

fogroll—
legroll—
whole

hog—
egg bowl—
bingo bongo—

gogo gonzo—
braino draino.
Nah. Mah. Wahdz.

mmmdclxx

the
teeny*
tiny
twist

this
tempting
tendency
to articulate
ten tons of
tickle-tarty
tongue
twisters
t’ertanally
entangle
the tongue.

*alas,
  my
  bad,
  this
  bit,
  no
  doubt,
  is a
  smidge
  less
  teeny
  than
  tiny.

mmmdclxix

Grunge

He clung
to the bum
of his very
own son
because
that’s how
long his arms
hung. This was
their first en
counter in
months—
the occasion
none but to
check in on
the son of a—
but given how
long his arms
hung, almost
at once he felt
the small gun
that rested up
on his son’s
left bun. It
was then that
Ben noticed—
Benjamin, the
son with the
gun upon
which his
pop had
his palm
overlayed—
the warming
bulge of the
pistol being
so steadily
pressed into
his butt that
he gleaned
that his pop,
so stunned
by Ben’s gun,
was no doubt
about to come
right undone,
and this rev
elation, of
course, was
no fun, so
that now
pop’s dear
Benjamin
was horribly
bummed.
This sad
little scene,
such a bun
dle of blun
ders, had
all played
out in a
run of
just over
a minute
at right
about
quarter
to one
when
Ben’s
poor
pop
had
arrived
in surp
rise. But
the sad
vignette
turned all
but tragic
would stay
frozen for
several
minutes
more on
account of
the dorm’s
loudspeakers
(which were
overly loud)
at right when
the man was
plumb coming
undone blared
none other than
Soundgarden’s
Black Hole Sun.
So, in light of
that spirit (and
forgive me the
pun), this fun
little father-son
story is done.

mmmdclxviii

Sonnet w/o a Shirt

     All I felt was fall in love.
          —Anselm Berrigan (on being in the apartment
             of Dodie Bellamy and Kevin Killian, from
             various notes on Kevin’s passing in Harriet)

“I’m not naked,” says this poem
directly into a smallish crowd of
mostly youthful human beings who
think to a person that they know what

love is. It was, of course, a distant
and dreamy time when the sex of
the lyric was always sexy. “Diiiig,”
proclaims the piece, who knows bet

ter than to stand under the naked sun 

w/their shirt off on such an unremarkable
Saturday afternoon. All of the humans
roll their eyeballs up until the insides of

their heads bleed, for they are the last hep
cats who can really soak up a trend (relish!).

mmmdclxvii

the checkbook, a 20th century relic,
slides itself under the front door,
stands up, and walks down the
driveway to the sidewalk, where
it escapes behind the hedgerow

never to be seen again by the people who
occupied the fine establishment that had
just been exited by an inanimate object,
despite the warrant they put out for its
apprehension, and a reward that could’ve
moved one into an altogether separate class
(if one were in the ever-expanding colloid known
as “lower” – and it is true that “middle” had been
inching ever toward this strata as both the bottom
and the middle had experienced what had become
known as a “squared” or sometimes “cubed” gravity
field at such levels as compared with, say, gravity
most anyone alive might remember just months
back; and yet somehow the gap between what
the original first and second layers that were
essentially collapsing into one another and
the meringue, the veritable icing, that
level known as “upper” was expanding
in what might as well have been explained
in “layman’s terms” as “by the galaxy,” or
“by a vacuum that is steadily expanding
in a way one might call galactical exponentia.”) – 
and with the planet having become one gigantic 

lower-middle class sinkhole and the upper crust rising
like a thin-lipped, crisp Olympus, words had, as it turned
out, become less and less effective. which is to say, 

words had become less necessary. language had 

begun to not exactly wither, but a more effective
description would be that language, words themselves,
had begun to sort of bottom out. there were many sounds
that were emitted in expression, from the rumbling moans 

rising from the planet’s sinkholes, to the airy, thin-lipped 

and high-pitched, not-so-sonorous yodels that were
whimpered from Olympus. expressions were viable at this
time, and were used, although it was often difficult to ascer
tain to what effect. but soon words, or what firstly were
attempts at emitting complete sentences, as had been
done with such regularity in the old days, began in
seeming earnest, the gods and goddesses, as well
as the sunken souls below, would, before a literal
and recognizable word or two, be awkwardly mouthed.
these attempts would soon simply disintegrate into a 

low-pitched sound that seemed as if it were coming 

from the bottom of the perpetrator’s bowels,
or from some faraway and yet
now nonexistent farm animal
like a crieoowwwww. or a
cliarawawawwwwwwawww.
or a dirigidirigiduhooozzzah.
an aooooooozzzzaaaahh.
an ooooooozzzzowww.
until it was just the
silence that slowwwed
and that sleeeeelewwwed
the mahhhs. the mazzzes.
the mohouzzzeethewwws.

mmmdclxvi

What can you tell me about my journey?

What stands out as eccentricity
or worse from my own perspective
gets lots for lack of practice. For
lack of interaction. As wisdom
sprouts from within like these
gnarly hairs that grow out of
my ears, or like the kinky
eyebrows that grow at
three times the rate of
the rest, and seem to
multiply exponentially
each year (first there
was one, then there
were three, then nine . . .). . . .
I know exponential like I used
to know potential, which, if one
is not a late bloomer, say, once
that motor’s running, decreases
exponentially with each year it’s
utilized (utilize it well, my love, but
do not rush, you must never rush your 

potential, because that plateau will be 

there, I swear it will, or it’ll be a goal

until you’re gonzo at least. But, oh
such joy in my heart as I tell you
this, but practical joy – once the
plateau is reached, where do
you go from there? Oh, there
is plenty of there there, do not
get me wrong, it’s just that the fun’s
in the incline, so steep that with every
step, no matter the weather or no matter
how thick the surrounding brush or how bloody
you’ve become from the brambles you’ve fought
each fine step to escape, at the end of the day, it’s
clear that you’ve progressed, you’ve risen up, you’re
higher than you’ve ever been before! So pace yourself.
Because no matter how slow you go, you’re still heading
up, and each and every night as you stretch yourself out
in the most comfortable position, upright as it almost always
is, and you rest your head upon a rock (another tidbit of
advice: it’s always better if it’s covered with moss on
one side or the other) – no matter how many steps
you’ve marched toward the inevitable top – you
have progressed, you can, with a splendid if not
slightly dizzy sense of satisfaction, know that
your altitude is at some point greater than
it was when you caught shut-eye the
night previous. So. Keep that focus
on the notion of the plateau, keep
that goal close to your heart like,
say, nirvana. But there’s no
need turning your venture
into a race. Take your
time. Enjoy your
surroundings,
what comes
at you, and
who you are
today as com
pared with who
you were yesterday.
Because once you make it
there, you’ve made it. Then
what? Slowly the sense of sat
isfaction from the progress that
you made every single day dissipates.
And there’s only one way to find that
feeling again, my love. And once
you’re that lost, you’ve not an
ounce of patience or perspect
ive left. And to the north,
or to the south, to the
east, or to the west,
in almost any dire
ction, at the edge
of nearly the en
tire circumfer
ence of that
plateau, you
will find that the
cliffs are sheer. And
while you’ll be ever so
tempted, and what with the
slosh of your brain and the sway
ing wattle you once called muscle
that’ll make up that body of yours
because you’ve been resting on your
laurels without a real goal at which you
might aim, nothing at all from which you
might orient yourself and find that motivation
that comes with certainty. If you get there, find purpose,
one way or another, inevitably, you’re going to
go down. You’ll dream vaguely if you can’t
secure within you what I’m telling you right
now that you want down as a means to
get back up, but your recollection and
your sense about how to go about such
a thing will be indescribably vague, 

once you have gone about the bus

iness of falling back down.  But
you need to trust me on this one. I
assure you that if you’ve lived without
a reason for existence for just a moment
too long your senses are going to bug out
and the last thing you’ll know is falling. So.
Listen very carefully, my dear, at this question,
which I ask that you keep near your heart through
the entirety of your journey, so that you may conjure
it up at any time, most specifically after you’ve reached
that plateau and you’ve lost all sense of reason, of
motivation, of goal, of perspective: if you’ve spent
what seems an eternity gleefully climbing your way
up in this world, and then one day you find that
you have arrived at your destination, would it
not be mind-bendingly senseless to then
drop yourself, say, feet-first, off one of
those sheer cliffs, only to have just
enough time to realize as you soar
to your inevitable death, that
you’ve just gone about
erasing every single
effort, every single moment
you’ve given to getting there in
the first place? So don’t lose that spirit.
Nor the wisdom that will come at such a
great and satisfying cost.
Unless, my love, you
have a penchant
for the absurd.
Then, I suppose,
all bets are off.
But either way, my
suggestion to you is
that you do not let that
notion get lost. Keep what
I’ve said held tight. It seems
such a simple thing, but hold on
for dear life. Onward and upward,
my love. You’ve ahead of you a
lifetime journey of such risk, to
be sure, but with each passing
day you’ll know a bliss surp
assing anything you’d ever
felt until then, day in,
and day out. Breathe
in every ounce of it
as it grows within
you and as you
grow through
it. [They hug
goodbye, and
the young man
is up and then
forever away,

leaving the old

man to spend the

rest of his days at

the very bottom.]

mmmdclxv

a bod, a fraud, applaud, ipanema

‘you can say that again!’ only,
i’d much rather you not, i respond
to myself, standing here in
the fog that’s more like
a rock with no roll.
and aloud, but
not very, because i’d
rather maintain this feeling
of being submerged, of complete
immersion. until, at least, i’ve
persuaded myself of a little
diversion. is it that i’ve
grown bored, gotten
restless? or is just
me being, per usual,
feckless? and before i can
know it, i’ve swum myself out
of the colloidal gunk and all the
way back to the sun. oh, my! and
oh, me and my sensitive skin! can’t
you look at the muck that i got myself
into!? only then i remember of whom
that i ask. i was always this reckless,
between you and me. and genetics being
genetics, i can’t help but think, are made up
of gene and louise in my case (garl and mabel,
to be more precise, i should say. to clarify things
just a little bit more, those two were my grand
parents. and they had but just one vice:
they each disavowed their given first
names. only i knew them as papaw and
granny louise, you see?). can we rest,
if you please? my brain feels so damned,
so digested. can we rest while i dream—and with
all i have left—how to kill this disease and arise from
this state of bereft as if finally uncocooned and
then fired like a cannon right up and into the
magnificent blue. oh, boo-hoo,
if they could only just see
what i have become!

mmmdclxiv

it seems as if

my appearance on
the tonight show
has been canceled,
you, riding in the
passenger seat
with the wind
blowing through
your hair. but
we aren’t even
moving, the keys,
still in my hand (my
hands aren’t even
shaking, will you
look at that). but
we had emerged
from the desert,
somehow, the
wind blowing
through your
hair, before
the legions
of zombies,
so very
grateful
just to have
arrived alive.
look! there
it is! the
new bay bridge
in the distance!
but the traffic’s
backed up all the
way to sacramento.
which is fine, just you
and me, i mean, the
only ones that are
even barely moving,
given that once in
the city, we’ll find
it, too, overrun
with the walking
dead, staring
blankly into
us, or we
know
better,
right
through
us. ‘oh,
well,’ you
say, somehow
relieved, and having
lived to tell it. all of
those dead
pedestrians
who never
minded us
in the first
place.

mmmdclxiii

the thing about people

they’re nowhere near as
wonderful as you are. in
fact, they’re exactly the
opposite, almost to a t.
that’s the thing about
most people. not really,
of course. humanity, in
reality, is so much more
mundane. okay, perhaps
that isn’t true, either.
because mathematic
ally speaking, i supp
ose i might need to
actually get to know
a few (more) of them
first, you know? in or
der to make such a
grand and bleak
assessment.

mmmdclxii

There are other. . .

places in this world
where a tourist might be
at which tourism is quite unlikely.

fish in the sea
(like you and like me).

matters that we should discuss.

options to consider –
sushi, for example, or, perhaps,
a French fusion of some sort.

things to do besides
sitting around all day
just being cerebral.

actors in this film –
and yet you choose
to be obsessed with that one?

perspectives on how the truth
relates to honesty. Honestly.

choices one might make,
but is obsession a choice?

books that have been written
on the same subject. Tons
of them, as a matter of fact.

calamitous eras in the
history of humankind.

bluffs. Additional cliffs over which
one might survey a
vast expanse.

cliffhangers.

mmmdclxi

off-kilter

about now
is when i generally
slip off and into eccentricity
which is tricky
because
already there
i try not to mope
as i sweep and i mop
away these various insecurities

     it’s mind over
     the matterhorn
     or so they say

don’t they?

mmmdclx

Two Titles For Which I Am Perfectly
Willing To Write The Poems
                     x
Two Quotes from John Ashbery
Along With My Misreadings Of Them

Title for a poem I would write, Number 1:
Get a Load o’ Yoda!

Quote Number 1 from a poem by John Ashbery –
from “Stupid Petals” (from Breezeway, Ecco, 2015):

     “I wanted to read that book, close to the circus.”



Title for a poem I would write, Number 2:
Euripides, Eumenides!

Quote Number 2 from a poem by John Ashbery –
from “Farm Hubbub” (from Breezeway, Ecco, 2015):

     “They will still be building buildings.”



And the 2 misreadings by a wound and wounded poet
(circa 2:00am):

     “I wanted to beat that book close to the circus.”

     “There will still be building buildings.”

mmmdclix

Note to Self

Listen, Hon,
I’m not trying
to add any more
agony to the min
iature version of
hell you’ve been
incubating in that
head of yours
these days
and nights,
but if you’re
going to be
up all night again
wrestling with your
demons, could you
at least have the
decency to give me
a heads-up, say, by
around noontime?!
Or any time prior
to the wrestling
match, really,
because, as
a gentle re
minder,
you and I
have a lot
going on at
the moment,
so there’s more
than just your
mind games
that need
gotten to,
and fast. I
do and would
and most hopefully
will so very much
appreciate it.

Yours,

mmmdclviii

Whattup?

Ain’t
a thing
goin’ down
except a bunch
of surly hurly-burly.

mmmdclvii

I Blame the Ugly

Which, I’ll admit
ain’t beautiful,
but there’s a
whole heckuva
lot out there
that’s ugly
as sin, I
kid you not.

And I know
that doing
this is just
as ugly of
me as the
ugly I blame
are, but can
you blame me?

We all want to
be pretty, I
dare you to
just try and
disprove that.
And if there
weren’t nobody
to blame then

what a bunch of
drop-dead gorgeous
people all of humanity
would be, am I right?
Well, of course I’m
right. So don’t be
ugly, dammit!
And that right

there is all I have
to say about that.

mmmdclvi

Beg Pardon?

Forgive my
Braggadocio,
But I am so

Very alive,
I’m alive, I
Still live, and

This I swear. But
Are you there?
Nope, you’re

Not. Because
You, my dear
Crew, chose

To vanish
When I
Was but

At the butt
End of my rope.
And now that

I’ve climbed
Over half
The way

Back, I
Just wanted
To say

Go away,
Don’t come
Back, and

How utterly
Worthless
You turned

Out to be,
What a lousy
Investment

On which to
Spend energy,
Years and years

And years of it,
Indeed, and
For such a lot

Of feckless
And sketchy
Vulgarians who’d

Seemingly exist, and
With such presence,
Such Oscar-worthy

Commitment,
Such earnest
Companions

Who’d each
And all turn
Into such

Glaring
Flakes
And just

Melt
Away
As I found

Myself quite
At the end of
My rope, not

A clue what
To do, no
Semblance

Of hope.
Well now
That I’m

Back (or

at least

half way

there), 

I’ve Just 

One thing

To say 

And that’s
Please

Stay
Away
And

Not just
Indefinitely—
Definitely

Not—but
Rather
Forever,

At least,
If you please
(That’s infinity

And beyond
If there happens
To be one).

You seemed
Oh so earnest,
But yet the whole

Lot of you
Turned out
To be such a

Pitiful, damned
Irresponsible crew.
And I mean it.

That’s it 

From me, 

Or at least 

As it goes 

From me
Unto you.

Yep, that’s it.
That’s all that
I wanted to

Say. That is,
At least for the
While of today.

mmmdclv

Dreamy McCheezy

Who’s actually running up
what hill? The world seems
off-kilter with a Kate Bush
song at number one and
parades of t-shirts that

are each emblazoned

with a leaf motif. I 

won’t ask if I’m 

the only one 

who feels this
way. Who feels
anybody (any
more?) – as
in the way,
say, Deanna
Troi feels. I
would not feel
like asking her, 

if I could, to be
honest. Being honest 

is like fighting the power 

(these days?). Who 

wants to fight the
power just to tell the
truth? Seriously, though,
who are you, running up
that hill, and where’d you
find such power to reach
such a speed? It's so

steep!  And what are
you here to tell us
(What are you here
to tell me? Why
are you here?)?
I mean that in the
most earnest way.
Which is where we
are now – gosh,
I’m sorry I keep
doing that –
it’s where I am
at this moment.
Fighting the power.
And for what? Bzzz!?
Hi. I started to say
I don’t care anymore
about who you are now.
About any thoughts but
my own. But I took a
test on how not to
care and I failed.
Miserably. So
who are you?
No, don’t tell
me. In this
dream, that
would be the
lie, wouldn’t it?
I suppose it would be.
But one can dream,
as they say. And
that I most
assuredly do.

mmmdcliv

As a Reminder

This is what I do.
This is what I love
to do. I do this
because I love
doing it. I am
unequivocally
drawn to doing
exactly this. Why
do I need a reminder?
Do I need to remind my
self or do I need to remind
you? Who are you? Forget
who you are, this is about me.
Oh, no. This is exactly what I
do. People may wonder (which
people, I wonder – probably no
body) why I would need to re
mind myself that this is what
I do. But please also note
that I’ve added that I love
what I do. Don’t I? I
think I do. And that
I’m—I believe
the word that
I used was
unequivocally—
compelled
to doing it,
this thing
that I do.
How, then,
might that make
this reminder feel
(neglected)? The
bigger question
probably is, “Why
should you care?”
About what I do
or that I do it. And
regarding whether
or not I’m in love
with this thing I do.
Do you care? Because,
if you do, maybe you
could tell me why,
and then I’d know.
That you care. And why
you do. And not only would

that surely give me some solace,

but it also just might help me 

answer the question about 

whether or not I care.  And
then, I could, if I wanted
to, go about the business of
finding out why I care. If,
indeed, I actually do. 

Right?  Plus, and

this is just an

opinion here,

but I believe

that it’s nice to 

know some things,

and that it’s good

to know a little

bit about

yourself,

as well. But 

this started out

as a reminder of

something, did it

not? But of what,
exactly? Did I forget?
Maybe it’s to remind me,
simply, that this is what I do.
And that I love what I do.
But do I? I’m pretty sure
that I do.  However,

now that I’ve spent 

so much time and

expended this

bit of energy

rambling on

about it,
it seems the
more mysterious
question to me is:
What, exactly,
do I do?
What
ever it
is, I must
surely love
doing it. A lot!
Wouldn’t you say?
Oh, but why would you!?

mmmdcliii

As a Reminder

This is what I (*love to*) do.

mmmdclii

I Have Taken Notes

See here, my scribbles,
by fraud and divinity,
and indecipherability and
Mother, Mother, Mom!

I have taken this down,
these notes on MUNI
and fix boogie and
call the tax people.

All seem of the same
importance, like the
pink felt tipped list
on the clean-ripped

top of a sheaf of
elementary school
paper with, what,
a trilogy of pieces

yet to be written en
titled “The unamused
muse,” “The muse’s
abuse, and “The invoice

for Joyce.” There’s
the name in green,
“Brian,” over “July
11th,” then “$64.”

There’s “AL2044779.”
I’ve made long and
short lists of songs to
add to a master music

list (written on the
top is sometimes
“MORE MUSIC” or
“to add to the music”

or, just “songs”).
There’s “more
calls to make” and
a lot that start out

“payment issue.”
The cryptic stuff
verging on the
poetic, like “H is

time for Clarity
not War...Or
Revamp Ever
for Sanity.”

Which has some
interspersed boxes
like it’s a checklist –
most just have dashes –

almost all are checklists,
one might surmise, but
_bedbugs, _looking
endlessly & comatose,

_interacting with the
never cans, _hurry
to spend hours,
_clams not cams,

_buse, _spun for
hours alone, then
“_BUT CLOTHES
ALL HERE NO

CALAMITY” – clams
not cams nor calamity
doesn’t make for calm.
There are notes about 

xanax and klonopin, 

about jobs and jobs,
scribbles taken during 

interviews that can jar,

not a single ounce
of context, and then
those that bring me 

right back to the

interview (which

whelms me at pre

sent, having had 

three separate 

interviews today, 

alone).  There are

notes taken while

talking with Mom for

hours about photos
left by her mother, as 

we speak across the
many miles it’s as if

speaking with her,
with Granny Louise,
or Grandma Hazel,
who gives us their

old home address 

in Detroit (20816
Russell) or is it

actually rather in

Highland Park?
There’s Dad’s old

high school, John J. 

Pershing. And right

after, in the same

pen (green again),
“July 11, 1911” –
I want to call Mom,

so that is just what I
do. After her CAT
scan. When I called
earlier and Rick answered,

sounding just like her,
“But she’s having a CAT
scan, they’re going to do
surgery on her head in the

morning.”  He always

shouts.  Having just had
these three interviews
(really four), only one of

which had been sched

uled before I got up this 

morning, the first of

whom called me an

entire hour ahead of
schedule, I’d just woken
up. These piles of paper 
I need to go through 

just to find a needle 

in a haystack it seems,
a “writing sample,”
an interoffice memo,

random, I dunno, but
what I’m finding instead:
serial numbers of the

ghosts of electronics 

past, a draft of

a note to an ex’s
boyfriend, and a 

sheet ripped from

a tiny spiral note

book with just one

name on it:  “Karla

Milosevich.” And

another sheet seeming

ly from the same note

pad with the phrase 

“slow and clear.” There

are such places to visit

in the Bay Area that one

week I cajoled all of us 

sibs into getting together

here.  Such a wonderful

time – the only time
they’d ever visited me
together, the only time

two had ever visited me at
all since I left Arkansas – 
before Gary passed away
in Missouri (he’d already

had two experiences that
nearly got him there, each
time he’d convince the
doctors he hadn’t been

feeling suicidal, in that
sweet-talking, easy
way he had of just
coming across as

absolutely earnest).
And Mom, who’s
been living at
the hospital

for something
like a month now?
Having surgery
tomorrow on her

head – for a broken
neck. That’s what
she said. Her neck
is broken! No idea

how. The cellphone
reception horrible.
I asked her if she
had gotten any

odds from the
doctor, whom she
said was one of
only four in the

state who do
this sort of thing.
“It’s very serious,”
she said, maybe

three times, as I
asked her in that
many different
ways, the same

question. So I
asked if anyone
had even survived
this serious procedure.

“Yeah, a couple of
people,” she said.
A couple of people.
And so I focus on

the tasks at hand,
my list of priorities,
the homework I was
given during two of

the three (four) inter

views I had earlier:
interoffice memo;
resume template.

One’s due by 10
in the morning
(they hope to
make a decision

on a candidate
then), the other
on Monday (this
one would be

“a process” –
so I write that
down slowly, in 

blue: “a process”).

mmmdcli

Here’s a Funny Head Feeling

that I’m having right now
and have decided to just
go with it. oh you were

perhaps expecting me to
describe the funny head
feeling to you? sorry.

sometimes i just go a
bout this thinking and
feeling and jabbering

on like there’s nobody
here but me. i mean,
there is no one here

except me. but i forget
the reason i do this verb
alizing. surely there are

reasons, aren’t there?
there are plenty for sure.
and if i confess that num

ber one among those is
to be heard. to talk (one
might put that as a sep

arate reason altogether, as
well, but in this case, i’m talk
ing the usual: engagement.

which is what i mean by

the nonsense of spout
ing out these innumerable

missives. which are
means to talk, to hang
out, to engage. yeah.

i mean in general, that’s ex
actly what i am attempting
to do. to have a conversation.

it’s just that tonight, lately,
sometimes i forget that part.
or i just leave that part out of

my thinking? maybe i’m just
learning how to engage with
myself. but what i mean is

(and sure, pity, but let’s
have none of that now, ok?)
i’m speaking in earnest.

and that used to mean,
speaking used to be, in
general, unless, say, the

act was carried out so as
to memorize or remember
things, like for an exam or

lines in a dramatic perform
ance, for example, a thing
which i’d put forth a some

times extravagant effort
(socially awkward yet
extroverted, in case you

didn’t by chance recall)
in order to engage. a
means to engage. to

learn. to get to know. to
flirt (do please know that
flirting was yet, still, just

the act of the saying, or
doing, something in order
to engage, so scratch that,

as it would yet be the means
to the end. of engagement,
as it were...)... so i am spread

ing out for you some whys
of engagement: to learn,
to get to know, to quell

curiosity, in hopes, of
a social or romantic
development, say,

or of enlightenment,
a means to improve,
to evolve, which i

sometimes think
is possible. but
then, so, there i

was, deciding to
go with this funny
feeling in my head.

and here i am still
going on about it,
even after admitting

to you (to whom?)
that, while it’d be
lovely to get some

sort of response,
or counter, a little
witty repartee

(like back in the
day), i had forgot
ten to whom i was

even addressing
my complaint?
the funny feeling

in my head. which
is a combination of
feelings, like a head

ache, for one, and
a tough memory
for another, along

with a feeling that
is distinctly a stress
ful one. oh, and

there’s also the
feeling of, well,
what an old coll

ege chemistry
professor of
mine use to

say when he
completely for
got his train of

thought as he
was speaking/
teaching – in

which he’d stare
at the class blankly
for an awkwardly ex

tended amount of time
and then, without even
a seeming tinge of re

gret he’d say “two trains
just collided in my head.”
then he’d go back to his

desk and sit down and
refer back to his notes
or to a textbook or the

chalkboard and carry
on. it’s basically a
combination of

those things that
are making up this
funny feeling in my

head, at least as best
as i can currently de
scribe it. but, again,

to whom am i des
cribing? and why?
it’s at times like these

that i half expect to hear
an answer or a response,
some dialog, something to

which i can then volley,
and the words would be
tossed about well into

the night. except
then i’d have a bit
more than just a

funny feeling in
my head. don’t
you expect? but

anyway, it would
appear that i owe
a bit of gratitude

to you, whomever
you are, real or un
real, here or not

here, listening/
reading or not
but from the

inside of this
head, which
has lost that

funny feeling.
all cured. for
the moment

anyway. i
think? boy,
how can i

be sure,
though?
laughter

is the best
medicine.
music makes

the people
come together.
an apple a day

keeps the doctor
away. okay. my
head. always up

in the sky. dear
feet, please do
your best to find

the floor.
where
was i?

mmmdcl

“What Is It This Time, Agnes?”

“what?” then agnes
looked all disturbed
at the insistence
that there must
be something.
she got all flus
tered with her
arms, kind of
pointing her
elbows down
and making
them into the
shape of a “w”
that hopped
up and down
like a rabbit
in front of
her smallish
but perky-
fluidy-floppy
breasts, which
could be easily
made out dancing
with the “w” in what
most anyone would’ve
surely thought mostly
quite inspirational ways.
and of course she was
flustered because there
was something. or, more
to the point, there was some
thing the matter. and she and
the other two agnesses (which
were all of the agnesses in town
at this point in time, it should be
recalled) then had had all of the
realization they wanted of what
they were to these deprived
people. “it’s your porchlight,
francis,” they said in unison,
that is agnes 1, agnes 2
and agnes 3 (who was
next-door neighbor to
frank and barb; had
been since they’d
moved into the
cul-de-sacced
burb back in
’sixty-two)

in unison.
“oh,” said frank,
and then, “well,
oh. oh.” the
agnesses gave
him all sorts of
looks of entreaty
until he added “uh,
well, i will have to fix
that tomorrow, i will.”
tomorrow was saturday,
so strictly speaking, even
though it was mid-afternoon,
and he and barb had already
slurped down two bloody marys 

apiece, it was still a work-day. can’t do
work on a workday, thought frank.
not at home, anyway. meanwhile,
barb walks out all smiles with not
one, not two, but five celeried up
bloodies, and the agnesses went
immediately into a new version
of their “w” dance with their
arms hopping up and over
and about while generally
remaining capital “w’s” –
only this time the dances
each seemed to have a
lot less anxiety and
a lot more of some

thing else which might
as well be described
as giddy. mouthy,
gossipy, as

always,

but happy. 

and frank 

wasn’t
paying 

the least 

bit of attention
to them. he did,

however, make a
mental note to pick up

some bulbs at the hardware

store tomorrow morning and
to install the new ones to
replace the two that had
gone dark. and down went
his drink in a gulp, or maybe
two. and his eyes never left
barb’s bazookas, who were
unexpectedly adorned by
only just the exact amount
of yellow material to just
almost and yet only cover
his wife’s most prized
possession. he even
lingered fleetingly on
a glib question that
was floating around 

in his head as he
downed the
last pulpy bit
of his cocktail,
“but, gee, francis,
what exactly is the
prize and what’s the
possession here?”
but he knew that
even she knew
that they both
played each

part quite
well.
“blue
ribbons!”
he blurted,
and by then
the agnesses,
lifting their
brows a bit
at that seem
ingly nonsens
ical comment,
were enjoying
their cocktails,
as well.