mmmdccc

December Dares
And Other Upside
Down Shenanigans

what comes after a nutty
nothing of a barren nov
ember? what else but the
dares of december, of
course. ‘query ginger for
the general coordinates of
larry’s au courant cafe’ is
what it says right here, for
example. followed by
‘respond’ or, it could be
‘rampage’ ‘michelle’
‘again and again.’
such scribbles were
made assuredly by
this gimpy hand
before me, but the
gibberish i can all
but decipher sounds
a lot more bonnie and
clyde than, say, mojo joe.
at any rate, who could
possibly determine
whatever it is that

with this scratchy

mess of blurred words 

i might have meant?
the head that’s con
nected to this horse’s
mouth can certainly
not recall. but i do
so remember how
hellbent i was on
a goal of staring
at the ‘zeros of
blue cross and
blue shield.’ how
could i forget? for
that was my home
of employment for
less than two weeks
that i lost by way of
slam-dancing my way
through the hellish de
mands that were made
at me so that i might snag
a regular, albeit miniscule,
home sweet home of my own.
this after not having one in the
solid for twenty-four months.
this is a memory that reminds
me to pick up some tums on
the way out (i would have to

beg, borrow or steal some, so

this is just fantasy at the mo

ment), so that, also, i might 

nab a bit of rare fresh air, rather 

than stare airless at the walls
of this coffin-sized home i (fairly?
unfairly?) exchanged for that short
job some forty-six months (or so)
ago. before i’m left with nothing
but gasps, i might as well close
the door on this particular ditty...
since a cursory glance at the rest
of the notes on this time-worn
page of handwritten end-of-year
goals insists that i ‘pickle’ some
‘office supplies’ to the tune of
nearly five thousand dollars
while also apparently ‘check
ing’ my ‘melons’ (which must
mean—in jest, or at least i do
hope—that i was to gawk at
all of the zeros in my checking
account?) while i ‘float glibly’
through the limbo of another
‘mundane monday.’ ‘hash
tag trucking,’ or it could
just be ‘talking’ – but
at what or to whom?
as this note was
scribbled well
before my roomies,
whom i call gener
ically (not sure as to
whether i mean that
much offense), conrad,
calliope and their crew
(by which i might as well
say army) of cacophonous
kiddos. whoever they are, 

they are, quite definitively,
cockroaches, one and all, so
there literally exist any numb
er of reasons to reach the begin
ning of winter after such a long
fall. ‘to the death, dear monsieur?’
my good pal conrad rasps (and
with such a detectable emphasis
on sewer, i swear!). ‘mon dieu!
these scrolls of ridiculous goals
will be the death of me, yet!’
i reply as i tuck myself in for
the morning as bass-ackwards
as one might atop a cold and
disparaging december day.
and as i do, i slip with some
ease down into an upside
down dream of doing a
zero gravity two-step
upon my coffin’s ceiling.
that nondescript surface
that seemed but unreachable
moments ago as my dog-tired
eyelids slide silently over my over
worn peepholes. zzz. and zzzzz.