mmmdccclxxxii

 Culture Wars

‘Walked right into it, that’s what
 He did.’ I don’t wanna be that guy. But how
 Onerous does one have to be in order to be called out?

 And so I go about my day, watching news blips and
 Reading articles on the internet from today’s news. It’s
 Exhausting,

 Though.
 How can these idiots live with themselves? And I become
 Enraged.
 So enraged. Yet
 Exhausted. I’m no activist. But how incredibly

 Frustrating to see progress reverse engineered. It’s the
 Ultimate offense. If I had the energy, I’d scream, sling
 Curses at them, ad infinitum,
 Knowing full well that there is not one thing I can do to
 Stop such ugly behavior. Crooks, all! How could they possibly care
 ?

mmmdccclxxxi

Airhead

I remember the
giddy romps, so
light and airy,
that used to
litter the vista.

I call them
portraits of a
frolicking dund
erhead, among
many other choice

titles, replete with
ribald epitaphs and
epigraphs, dropping
names as if I were
the very center of

every social circle,
in every news cycle.
Were those but the
picturesque displays
of a clown furthering

his education? Who’s
left to ask, I suppose.
As faded and fuzzy as
these distant visions
are to me, I can, and

with ease, feel the rush
of relevance these carefree
scenes once meant as if
each had expanded mean
ing still, but yet now I

have the—what?—the where
withal to see how vacant,
how unimportant, each
would, astoundingly,
and in reality and muted

retrospect become. I miss
those vivid landscapes
and the idiotic confidence
that being the very subject
of each instilled within me.

mmmdccclxxx

Death: A Comedy

Nobody died. I
didn’t even die.
What makes you
so sad? There is
no direct correl
ation within these
statements.
My point is
(and come to
think of it, are

these even
statements?)
people died—of
course there
were those
who did.
But there’s
always hope. 

Isn’t there?

Yes? There’s
always hope?
Do you listen
to a lot of comedy?
Of comedians? I do.

And this seems to be a

pretty consistent theme.

Or is it just me?
No? but of course?
It’s comedy. That’s
what comedy is. It’s
hope. It’s a touchy
thing, comedy, I’m
thinking, watching
a new stand-up’s
HBO special.
How do they
get away with it?
I wonder. How
does he get
away with
this? Then,
again, I think,
oh, because it
happened in the
comedy zone. It’s
a space where this
sort of thing can be
gotten away with. Can
be accommodated. And
this gets me to thinking,
once again, of dying, of
death. Of Ireland, and
of other places in the
world I’ve never been.
But of death, of funerals
and of wakes. I can’t
handle funerals. No,
more precisely, I just
don’t go to funerals.
Funerals are not for
the (public) grief about 

which they purport to 

be. A funeral is, I find,
is mostly just public 

(Although, I suppose,

some are private,
right? Still...)
posturing.
They’re
political.
I think of
funerals

serve more

as a device

within which

to position

oneself in
relation to—
I mean, I think
of death when I
think of funerals,
of course—the
dead. They scream
“Okay, now, what do
I get from this?” Yeah.  And
maybe this is mostly my problem.
A personal problem. But a wake,
to me, a celebration of someone’s
life, where there’s drinking, there’s
laughing and there’s wailing, now
that is my idea of how to handle—
a way to execute—the passing
of someone in close proximity.
How, exactly, is death like
comedy, though? Somehow
the two seem to fit well together,
in my line of thinking, and

whether I have made it 

clear with these few lines,

I am unsure.  But this is

the stuff about which I 

wonder, and have been

for quite a while now.

mmmdccclxxix

Hang On To The Sky,

Falls into bed like a clump.
Doesn’t leave home for a
month. Pondering how to
escape. Tucked into bed.

What an egghead! To com
plain about anything when
locked into one’s comfort
zone. Bleak sinking deeper,

the dumdum conundrum.
Can’t act without a goal,
can’t move without a
movement. A moment

to collect a thought....
I forgot. What a sin to
live life so lifeless.
Cooped up like a

chicken without
any wings. Sleep,
lazy monster.
Tomorrow’s cant

goes clippity-clop.
But you, however,
cannot but plop
and kerplunk.

U. R. A. Lay,
Zee. Clump.
O. Useless.
Junk.

mmmdccclxxviii

Right Your Heart

Insistence. Sliver
of a moon flung
into the sky while
clipping a fingernail.
Turns a blah dusk
beautiful. You feel
it right here. [Press
hand to beat’s insist
ence; persistence.]
Someday my day
will come. And the
sun, from heaven
can be heard scream
ing like a cauldron oft
chapped children. Oh.
He’s merging diverge
nces. Is this okay? It
is love that doesn’t an

swer the question. Water.
We want water. This
resistance too dim to
refocus is no bliss.
The hiss of steam
that risks reaching
the sun. Which
wishes with malice
that it were a palace
filled with snow. Yo,
a snow palace tosses
a couple of balls to
make of the moon
a snow-moon. Oh,
tiny lunar man within,
of ice (of ice) your aortal
orbit will mean my demise,
it must end (it must end).
Upon what magic do you
depend? Could you, please,
might you instead, find in
your tiny green heart an
escape mechanism, an
off-ramp? Can you hear
me, my snowman? With
what incantation might
you be knocked off your
course. Make your way
to my soul, I insist (with
insistence), even though
I’m aware what a fool I
am doing so. Who am I,
you might ask, to relay
such an order? Just an
overgrown immature
earthling, in fact, who
shall lie on this sword
just to prove his exist
ence. How might he
bargain his way out
of this headlong rush
into the morgue’s
freezer? But it
is no use,
his memory,
useless, is too
slow to unbury
his one winning chip:
“Ah, when I’m a cadaver,
it’s doomsday for all of us.”
Who knew what a sweet pleas
ure that freezing could be?

mmmdccclxxvii

The Accidental Hamster

What a mug on
that one! Although,
I suppose that faces
say a lot of things
they’re not. Like
Do not step one
more foot toward
me! or, especially,
Love me because I
am lovable. Those
are just two examples,
but you get the picture.
And so I tread carefully,
and only in my head.
But I’m so drawn to
those big circular ears
pointed right at me
and rising like two
big pink moons from
the fuzzy clay-colored
surface of some faraway
planet. Where you do not
want to run low on here is
oxygen. I know this well.
It’s just picture perfect. Yet
it’s a face that could set off
a million alarms, this one.
Sure, those eyes are so ad
orably open that they’re
ovular in a vertical way,
but you don’t know what
they’re really looking at
or what inevitably cruel
thoughts lie behind them.
Even though you can
practically feel their
gaze. Right at your
heart, you can.
But in that same
heart, your own
heart of hearts,
you know.
You know
that the
most likely
of likelies is
that they’re
scouring this
godforsaken
countryside for
a bite to eat. And
of course. Because
look around. There’s
nothing else here. I
mean, the only thing
standing between
that rat and the
rest of the uni
verse is me.

mmmdccclxxvi

Puttery Moth

“Who needs one?”
it thought, flipping
its antennae back
and forth like locks.

Feather, saw-edged,
the moth knew its
locks were more
beautiful than that

of the sputterfly.
It just had trouble
articulating it. When
it tried, what came

out was more like
“powdery mouth”
or “pokery molf”
or “pondery mug.”

Elated, the moth
arrived home,
and alit comfort
ably upon its

poverty mound
only to remember
it had forgotten to
pick up toothpaste.

“Oh, well,” it
thought, “what
are you gonna
do?” And as it

almost dozed off,
it remembered
its mother, and
how she’d yell

“Get your pom-
poms you silly
slumber-mot’!”
And so there

was no sleep
for the weary.
Back it went for
some toothpaste.

mmmdccclxxv

Finding a Place to Land

famous people who are
famously afraid of getting
on an airplane have landed
upon something pretty solid.

i, with little renown, am not
one of them, but i can relate
very well to the illogic of such
a fear, having been there. but

i have been there and back again,
turning forty in paris, for example.
finding the romance of italy in the
holy trinity of roma, firenze and

venezia, i became a devout convert.
in and out of london for a cross-
continent trek by train to copenhagen
to begin a stunning baltic cruise, with

stops in stockholm, helsinki, talinn,
st. petersburg and oslo with a final
stop at amsterdam. and there were
separate two-week treks to tokyo

and hong kong. granted, this all
took place within a three year
time-frame over a dozen years
ago. a lot has happened since

the last trip abroad that it’s odd
to frame the severity of what had
become an inability to board an
airplane so that i might arrive

in such a faraway somewhere.
but i know how strong the desire
to get there was within me. and
on paper i understand the years

of working on the solution to that
conundrum. i can still taste the
glory of finally deciding upon a
solution and of stepping on that

first international flight. so this
fear was never a value for me, it
was a detriment, a problem that
i absolutely had to solve. this i

remember. and i have thousands
of graphical depictions of the truth,
that i was there, and many of these
tease my memory into reminiscence,

placing me there. and there. and
there. i can remember, as well, how
insurmountable this fear felt, but also
how i never once allowed that to alter

my belief that i would find a way to
overcome that fear, i was firm in my
confidence that i would get there.
but now i am here. values evolve,

belief systems change, motivation
and desire can dissipate. did i simply
need to prove to myself that i could
accomplish something i took for granted

that i would do, especially once i found
an obstacle that i needed to overcome,
a puzzle i needed to solve, in order to
actually do it? i am trying to understand,

here, now, a dozen years after that most
incredible whirlwind tour of the world. i
am sitting here, frustrated with these
thoughts, forcing myself at them in order

to get at an answer to something. to
rediscover purpose, to gather somewhere
in me the motivation. there are things
that can reframe perspective entirely,

and along with these circumstances
comes the passage of time, which
diminishes everything as we move
toward vapor, toward nonexistence,

or whatever inevitability is. this,
today, seems the enemy to me;
and a brutal one, at that. because
at some point, it is to this enemy

that we each must concede. but
how? this question of how to untangle
myself from these thoughts—or so as
to, better still, given the inevitability—

reconcile them has me more than just
a little bit stumped at times. but my
desires have not faded. and i have
goals. i know more of who i am and

how much better i want to be than i
did when i first set foot on that airplane
to paris. and most of me believes that
i am not only a better person for it, but

a better person for going through this
extended set of circumstances which
has kept me from getting on an airplane
for over a dozen years now, that has

kept me from landing at whatever new
place, has had me instead flailing about,
as in a large body of water, no land in
sight, gasping for breath, finally seeing

land and, for what seems like forever,
exhaustedly swimming steadily toward it.
will i get there? i’ll say yes. today, that
is the only answer there can be. and

when i do, where will i be? i cannot be
certain. and sure, it feels at times like
a devastating setback to have such a
fuzzy goal knowing where i have been,

knowing how much determination i had
of getting there, of feeling so assured of
where i would be when i set foot on the
earth once again. but the exciting part

was getting acquainted with this foreign
environment, the discovery, the education,
and these are things i can do just as well
once i make it to the shore. once i find

myself once again on solid land. how
droll it is to relay repetitively to you
that i am so tired, and how frightening
when doubts arise, about whether or

not i will make it. so i teach myself
the grace, the choreography of
swimming and i believe so intensely
that i can literally taste the sand of

the approaching shore, of the land
that i approach, of the land upon
which i will soon stand. and as it
gets closer, i get hungrier, and i

believe. and once i have learned
all i can from this water, and once
i have learned all i want from this
new place, upon which from my

graceful swim, that will become
a crawl in which i cling to rocks
or the sand of a foreign land,
from which i will rise, get back

upon my feet with my head
in the sky, and explore and
explore and explore...once
i am done i will, replete with

all of this new knowledge,
this education, i will, and
with swagger, board another
flight. and wherever it lands,

so will i.

mmmdccclxxiv

Furry Mobile

the artist who
had been mak

                       ing them (we
                       didn’t know that

for sure) had
been placing

                       them on the lower
                       branches of trees

or sneaking
them up onto

                       the edges of the
                       sloping architecture

of people’s
homes or on

                       some of the neigh
                       borhood’s taller

mailboxes and
one time one

                       was hung from the
                       community’s singular

stoplight they
had all been

                       made of what seemed
                       like pieces of cut glass

that had been
assembled by

                       rotating wires and some
                       of us thought the swirl

ing twirling pieces
were all somehow

                       electric and when any
                       of us looked up on a

sunny morning our
eyes would be hit

                       by the shimmering
                       lights we thought

electric which
would momentarily

                       blind us and when
                       we could finally see

the swirling glass
moving after being

                       blinded momentarily
                       (during that time we

would each hear
the music of the

                       pieces tinkling
                       as if a music box

with a familiar
tune that we

                       could almost make
                       out, almost find the

words to, some
childhood nursery

                       rhyme sung to warn
                       us about bridges falling

or creatures that
would kidnap us

                       if we went too deeply into
                       the forest or faraway places

where everything
was crooked and in

                       threes, like billy goats or
                       bears or beds or pigs with

houses made of
different materials

                       creating different textures
                       these materials, each house

more fragile or
less fragile if you

                       were lucky or had fore
                       thought) but then one

day some boys
found one dangling

                       from just beneath the
                       bridge (the only entrance

or exit into the
idyllic community)

                       that swirled and twirled
                       but did not shimmer nor

tinkle and one of
the boys said it

                       stunk like a barn and
                       the one fire truck and

the sheriff’s car
could soon be

                       seen with their en
                       circling lights and

they stayed there
until at least dusk

                       and the mayor called
                       a meeting and put out

a proclamation
or a warning and

                       nobody was talking
                       anymore about how

beautiful they
were or how

                       they were works
                       of art anymore and

people were
mostly just

                       silent and serious
                       like winter after the

first big snow
only it was still

                       summer and the
                       world was suddenly

full of more
questions

                       than answers and
                       the kids would fall

asleep in class
and complain

                       of headaches once
                       school started that

year and this went on
for quite some time.

mmmdccclxxiii

Harebraining

     ...and so I globalize.
               —Kim Hyun

dim the candy lights
your eye-pools so cool

i want to suck them like
lollipops without turning

horror this morning
which it still is

when i told you the day
felt like a series of spoons

and rambled on with
a bunch more soothing

ideas—

and then i say drop by
and then you say okay

so many hundreds
of thousands of miles away

mmmdccclxxii

Oops. Sorry. Poetry.

     ...and so I verbalize.
               —Kim Hyun

if i’m not around
i can’t be bothering
you. i do hope that
i am not a bother.

three episodes later
and i’m wondering:
interviewer? or
interviewee? there

doesn’t seem to be
a lot of yippees. this
could be because i
don’t bother being

a bother. these days
i am a slave to peanut
butter as i read burning
questions to my laptop

in bed. is that what
my fortune cookie
said? i’m pretty sure
i’ll be unable to ignore

cardi b henceforth. she
is quite short, standing
next to david letterman
as the story unfolds of

how this rapper was so
randomly unwrapped.
not all things are random.
and rapping can be rap

turous. take bob the
drag queen’s new ep.
no joke, it’s a whole
new level. and so

go dave and cardi
through the gardens
of the property at
which was born our

late president, franklin
delano roosevelt.
and this is presidents
day. in ukraine.

mmmdccclxxi

Love in a Biscuit

     Mister, I’m on my way to silence. Can you
     let me have a sip of words?
                                              —Kim Hyun

wasn’t what i was
looking for in there.
pretty much anything sweet
would’ve been fine by me.

love is a biscuit and now
we are go-kart racing with
billie eilish. etc. how do i
find the sweet that is in me?

artificial sweetener. which i
began using to make coffee
more palatable around the
time i moved to san francisco.

saccharine: excessively sweet
or sentimental. i’m from the
south, so of course. but let’s
do it without the actual sugar,

i thought, remembering dad
holding a spoon of his first,
second, third, etc., glazed
ceramic cup (this was before

the overkill of bulky mugs),
almost dainty, but holding
a spoon as a sort of upside-
down umbrella over the mouth

of the coffee/teacup in one hand
while the other held the bottom
of the sugar dispenser, butt up,
with a sheer white pour that lasted

what seems like a minute. the
spoon never moved, really, just
overfilled with the white granules
until an oval shaped wall of sugar

began to cascade down into the
cup from the rim of the spoon.
this goes on for some time. then,
finally, the sugar is rightside-up,

back on the table in front of his
saucer, maybe one swivel with
thumb and forefinger to tip the
rest of the sweet stuff out of

the spoon and into the cup,
which would now be seemingly
half-filled with sugar. then the
coffee would be poured over the

granules topped off generously
with whole milk, and the spoon
during this phase of the ritual or
performance would be stirring the

goop back into a syrupy liquid.
and in no time flat the cup would
be slurped all but dry (with a few
dregs of the toast he’d sop into

the slurry for good measure),
so that he’d be back again at
‘measuring’ out the teaspoons
of cascading sugar, starting the

process over again. whether
by genetics of by virtue of
growing up in the south,
my tongue wants things

just as sweet, but dad was
diagnosed with diabetes a
few years before his early
passing, and mom was

diagnosed well before that
and sits for dialysis three
times a week, so i suppose
when i started using the

artificial sweetener some
twenty years ago i was
doing so with a glimpse of
that—of this—potential future,

even though by then i
had yet to even be told
that i was pre-diabetic.
hence the splenda, which

still does the trick for me
and my saccharine-seeking
tongue. where was i going
with this? well, the music

of billie eilish got me here,
i suppose. and as reminiscent
and as rooted as her music is
in the melancholy of goth or

emo or whatever pop calls its
minor keys these days, she is
about as sweet as they come,
it seems to me, especially as

interviewed by david letterman,
whose snide curmudgeon has
worked its way into his entire
demeanor and yet, the longer

that gray beard grows, the
tamer and sweeter the man
gets, so that nowadays, as the
interview streams through the

airwaves to my laptop, which
then gets to me, comes at me
as more sugar poured for the
duration into my head through

my eyes and ears. what will i use
to stir this admixture into my cynical
brain, i wonder, now that the king of
snide has become grandpa sweetheart.

the logic of portraying everyman’s
sweeter side when he once was
the singular resonant voice of
cynicism before the world even

needed it. and so, we 

apologetically get a grip. 

on this, another day 

of sweet sorrow.

mmmdccclxx

U-Turn at Hellscape’s Border

You sent
my strongest belief
all the way to the moon
that was You
and Your druthers
You had no intention
to finish the deal
Yours was with the devil
to make me a meal
You sent me a poisonous
something or other
and into a virtual coma

You heel
You sent me a message
about how I tasted
You took the old offer
with Lucifer danced until
I was comatose comatose
mole me a ken
for You sent me a wheel
barrow filled to the brim
with Marlboro Lights
then You sent Carl to Garl
in my grandfather’s car
You sent Hedda Hopper
a red helicopter
You sent Aaron Burr
he didn’t concur
then strident with failure
the soup from the dregs
of the witch’s black cauldron
four petals of daisy
a ton of manure
You act the old man
in the stetl who sent
Harry’s mistress a sedan
full of cardigans all because
You’d given them up for lent
and what about me?
I have spent all my bills
for a whiff of Your scent
it’s obscene can’t You see that
the devil mayn’t cure
this horrid dizzies (cuz You
sucked all the bones out of
both of my ears)
oh dear You sent me a flurry of
weevils to wither my crops
which dizzied into a big crumple of whir
(oh, Lord if I’m ever as bored as a stale maple plank
please disallow my old love the same gall
to approach such a vulnerable
peasant as me)
You’ll crawl through the dormer and
slink through the attic and down the
creaked stairwell to slaughter my kittens
I’d rather submit to a tortuous slumber
in the thick of the brambles that wave in the breeze
like the darkest Pacific down that
barely discernible path
that we used to tread
daily
Your hand soft in mine
oh You monstrous concoction
of amoral memory
You’re wearing
Your hood
and Your cape
and thank heavens my
eyes can now see through
such dapper illusions for You
are as evil as ever
conniving contriving
with my heart in Your teeth
and Your deeds none but dastardly
You made a meal 

out of me
but only to
spit me
right out
go away
go away
I shall have no more
of You
not any
not ever
til my
eyes can but
watch as the
lid of the coffin

before me is nailed

into eternal darkness

then they’ll see

nothing and

my days

will be

finally

done.

mmmdccclxix

| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |

Glipizide 5mg tablets (Mfg: Apotex Corp) qd

Descovy (emtriciteabine and tenofovir alafenamide) 200mg/25mg tablets qd

Ibuprofin (NSAID) 200mg tablets tid

Metformin 500mg (Generic for Glucophage; Mfr: Aurobindo pharm) 1 tablet
     each morning and 1 tablet at night

Atorvastatin Calcium 20mg (Generic for Lipitor; Mgr: Northstar) qd

Amlodipine Besyulate 10mg (Generic for Norvasc; Mfr: Unicchem pharmac) qd

Clonazepam 1mg (Generic for Klonopin; Mfr: Teva usa) take 1 tablet by mouth
     daily as needed for severe anxiety; 20 pills must last 30 days

Talafadil Tablets, USP 5mg (do not split tablets; take the entire dose)

Trazadone (old prescription) 50mg take one tablet by mouth as needed

mmmdccclxviii

Excerpt From a Curious Handbook
Worth Considerably Less Than $1.99

Pow wow town sow.
Who do that doodoo
that you do? Hunger
begets hunger (burger)
exponentially, but before

that burger gets gone
that burger gets horny.
Or maybe it’s actually
hunger that begets the
horny. The latter fact has

been said to be the primary
cause of paranoia, which
can also beget perversion,
and exponentially. Rather
than confront the elephant

in the middle of one of your
home’s most primary room,
one must burst resolutely
from one’s closet. This will
always be such a relief. While

we are at it, we might as
well make this one long
joke about how I cannot
read my own writing.
Oh, a nonsense poem,

of course! That’s why!
(Damn right, that’s why!).
(The shift in tone seemed
dangerous, but abstract
enough?) Berceuse,

Beetlejuice, Beelzebub.
Don’t look now but it
appears he’s lost his
f(pl)ace. Oh, no!
That was not Jane

Fonda that he wadded
up and threw away
hours earlier, but the
one he’s now making
up as he goes along.

Hot dog! (What a ding
dong!) What a shame.
Anomaly upon anomaly.
He has paused for a while,
imagining he’s underwater,

petting a small octopus.
They are quirky animals
and appreciate love just
like the next guy, you
know? Sue me if you’ve

heard this one before.
Well. Scratch that. Tell
ya what, you can take me
for all that I’m worth if
you every hear it again.

mmmdccclxvii

Finding Your Fonda

I can feel Jane Fonda’s
weirdness in me. Meaning
I can relate to her fairly

omnipresent fish out of
is water look on her seems
fairly new to me, but thinking

back, it was always there, or
maybe a bit deeper beneath the
surface usually. For two years now,

however, I’ve watched interview after
interview that she has given, obsessively —
and they have been relentless, such an

easy thing to obsess over. And they are
so rarely just one-on-one interviews.
They’re not all with Lily Tomlin, either.

It’s during these multiple interviews
that a less apparent side of this diva
of the silver screen and boob tube,

this icon of activism and feminism
and empowerment comes shining
through. I’m talking about the

way she goes about forming
friendships. When Fonda decides
she wants to get close with someone,

it is often even before she literally
meets them. She will see someone
onstage during a performance, or

in an interview on television, and
she will immediately know that this
is someone she wants to know better

It seems instantaneous. And once
she has made up her mind, she
will relentlessly pursue a friendship

with that individual. She will find
a way to make it clear to the person
that she wants to know them. And

then they just cannot rid themselves
of this goal. This may be at first
annoying to the objects of affection,

but it is apparent in interactive
interview after interview that
once that bond is made, it is

wholly mutual. When within a
cadre of friends, it is also clear
that she loves to play the buffoon,

to be the center of attention, to be
the butt of any and all jokes. This
act can get a bit feisty, and all

players in this game seem to
relish it with intensity, while
also managing to defend her

with sincerity and grace to the
very end. This is the characteristic
of the lovely Ms. Fonda to which I

can most especially relate. It is
quite possibly what makes her
infinitely endearing to me as

time passes and she so grace
fully ages (would that, all along,
I were doing that part so well).

This, it turns out, is a quality I
recognize so well, because it
at least used to be one in me,

one in which I’d exercise
unswayingly, sometimes even
to the seeming detriment of my

already well-polished and oft-
present group of close friends.
Like her, I was drawn to folks

who liked to stir up trouble,
so to speak. Who loved to
shake things up or, as some

might call it, make things
interesting. As I sit here,
smiling, however, I cannot

somehow jealously wonder
how significant a part this
quirk that we share played

in the complete obliteration
of my so carefully sought out
and built-up and nurtured and

finessed group of friends. That
seemingly lovely group who
meant the world to me would

be always around, participating
in the great adventure of life
and then, in what at this date

seems like instantaneously,
a mere split-second, say,
they were completely gone,

dispersed, most never to be
seen since. It seems so odd
to repeat but it’s a mystery

that every day since has
befuddled me, and remains
the largest mystery and the

worst nightmare of my
very existence. And I
am not being hyperbolic

in the least. That the
presence of this group
of individuals gave me

such joy, and such reason
to wake up to each morning
now has me wanting to dig

deeper into what I see in
Jane Fonda as this grand
similarity between little

me and internationally
treasured her. But it
becomes a huge

difference, as I watch her
talk about how her
“sisters” are those whom

she says will always have her
back, will be at her side until
the end. So it would seem that

what feels like a very similar
thing that Jane and I share, in
reality, I suppose, I just do not

have it. Something about the
quality of me, which was such
a cornerstone to my everything,

was flawed. Whereas Jane seems
perfect in every way in this depart
ment. Which has me thinking a

thing I do all too often: should I
ever attempt to rebuild myself
a new family like this? Or should

I just give up on that notion?
There are moments when I
see signs that give me hope

for rebuilding such a group,
and I think what a good thing
it might be to give my all to such

an activity again so that I can
do it better than before and
enjoy the fruits of such labors.

However, it does seem to be
an exhausting project to once
again begin, knowing especially

what happened when I thought
once, and for so very long, that
I had really succeeded in such

an ideal undertaking. But I
continue to open my eyes
wide for those positive signs

and will perhaps make my
Jane Fonda moves should
those signs brighten, even

in the slightest, for what
to me is a duration of
any real significance.

mmmdccclxvi

Epiphanies to Some
Revelations to Others
Gossip to a Few Lucky Ones

Well, okay, I would add
mere practicalities for me.
Just to potentially hyper
bolize the gossip. Beware
of bleeding ear syndrome
(and the unexpected arr
ival of a fleet of firefighters,

one of which tells me “You’ve
got blood on your ear!” I know,
I say. It’s a shaving accident.
He says these things happen.
But one must admit, or at least
I will, that an ear is the second
or third most disturbing portion

of a body to discover bleeding
profusely. Things that are
mangled and/or bloody. Is
that today’s topic? Nope. I
am looking to you, however.
Might I be so bold as to ask
from within these stanzas what

YOU would deem your two most
precious body parts? Please reply
to delraycross@shampoo-poetry.com.
The story of the hyphen between
“shampoo” and “poetry” is off-
subject a wee bit, but not the
original question, please do not

forget. Anybody? Anybody?
Encouragement to give your
guesses (no guess will be
judged - scratch that - it is
2023, I will stay with the times,
any answer will be duly judged.
What are opinions for, anyway?

There was some chicken scratch
in this general vicinity of the draft
of this piece in which I offered
the option of anonymous answers
and then mentioned the notion
that celebrities have a less
difficult time at anonymity

than most folks because of the
financial means at their
disposal to come up with ways
to remain anonymous (ironic, isn’t
it?). And thenafter those meanderings
I go on to say let’s not make

a bitter diatribe but rather
an adherance to steadfast
observation - scientific, if
you will; statistically prov
able observation. Now,
let’s get back to the blessed
body. What do YOU do when

you discover a skin flap (on
yourself; on someone else,
which could be someone
you love, someone with
whom you are very close,
or a stranger, a mere
acquaintance)? What

do you do when you
witness someone
sitting across from
you who has some
thing clearly stuck
between their
teeth (answer again

separately for the
same 5 types of folks
with whom you may
encounter this event)?
What do you think of
Paul Rudd (be specific
and elabarate)? As a

quick reminder, don’t
forget the email address
noted above to relay these
answers. (Bonus points for
any comments about the
website to which the URL
in the email address leads.

Also, a tally of metaphoric
hands from whom the
answer would be “I do
not know from this so-
called SHAMPOO” - this
would be more a meta
phorical pole vault.) Here’s

a query: Men, how do you
groom your balls? I’m
looking for best practices
here, along with any tricks
of the trade, innovation or
creativy in your various
processes. When about to

read a poem, what are your
general first thoughts? On
those times when you have
finished one, or in the future
when you do finish one, are
there any revelatory thoughts
of a profound nature that you

would be willing to share with
me? Let’s say you shave your
face and there are left afterwards
a number of spots of blood that
give your face the appearance
that it has a bunch of red freckles.
Out of my abundance of curiosity,

what do you do next? What do
you think of interactive art? Of
collaborative poetry? Do you know
of any interesting examples about
which you could enlighten me?
What are your thoughts on what
appears to be male-shaved chests?

What about the ones who appear
quite unkempt, like lawns unmown,
for years? What about that pretend
“I’ve let it all go look,” which has gone
through a very elaborate and elongated
time in which it has been groomed just
for that effect? How about some topical

entities. Let’s get red-faced. How do you
feel about Donald Trump? About Joe Biden?
That was cheap. I’m sorry. These are things
that are on my mind constantly, however. How
about slide projections of old. Remember slide
carousels? The process of putting old school
presentations together (the antithesis of Power

Point, I’d say)? That thought, for whatever
reason, keeps whizzing past me. What do
you think of baldness? Of realative hairless
ness? Do you wear underwear, in general?
Do you prefer poses or candid photographs?
Do you like graffiti? What do you consider
ephemera? Where do you think you might

find a gay bakery? What social media do
you use? Who are your favorite broadcast
news journalists? What is the best improve
ment you can imagine happening to life as you
presently experience it. Aside from a bit more
social engagement and a bit more confidence
and a job and lack of occasional paranoia that

swirls pretty consistently around those subjects,
and a few additional items of proximity, I think
I’m happy as clams and soon to be happier,
Though I doubt clams are really that happy.
What do you think about clams and happiness?
Now that you’ve gotten this far, do you think you
might indulge me with responses? Thanks in

advance for indulging by sending your responses to me
at delraycross@shampoo-poetry.com. Have an awesome day.

mmmdccclxv

Stress

          I have a canoe that gives me therapy my insurance won’t cover.                                                                                                                                             —Chen Chen

Some of my most stress-ridden moments have occurred during therapy.

One thing about being homeless in California is the amazing medical insurance.

It pays for everything in that area, pretty much, and was the only perk to being homeless.

At least that I can think of. And I can’t think of much during that period.

Because there’s a thing called trauma and a thing called PTSD. These can affect memory.

And when one has as lousy a memory as mine, almost anything can eliminate it.

Or hide it, as the case may be.  Which is why I write.

I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I found msyelf overwelmed with joy or
some other emotion (sometimes not a favorable one) upon reading something I wrote that had me remembering.

I do not think of this as a problem. What I think of as a problem is forgetting things, whether inadvertantly, intentionally or in some darker subconscious manner.

I could elaborate on why I believe remembering/memory is so relevant, but won’t at the moment.  I will mention, though, that I discuss this at length quite often in this very poetry project.

Granted, there are getting close to being 3,900 poems in this project, so there is always the chance that you’d have to pilfer through a bunch of poems that would potentially not be to your liking before getting to the ones about why I think memory so important.

But what if the more you read them, the more you enjoyed them. Not likely, but, still.

Why would YOU want to know why I find memory so important, anyway?

I have had a few stressful extended moments whilst canoeing, as well.

Please notice that I have not dicscounted the potential positive benefits one might get from canoeing or therapy.

That last sentence sounded like a disclaimer, and indeed was one. Did that come about because I’ve been thinking a lot about lawsuits?

I wonder why I might be thinking a lot about lawsuits lately.

I’m just kidding. Almost joking. I know why I’ve been thinking a lot about lawsuits lately.

In an effort at some engagement of late, I've been asking direct questions to any potential readers, should there be any. Although I realize it’s a poetry device that is used on occasion without the author or anyone else involved, fictional or real, expecting to get a response.

Nevertheless, I’ll note here that it’s not that I expect a response, because I don't.

It's just that I would like to have a few responses to my direct questions to the folks who may be reading these poems, should there ever be a soul or two reading them.

This poem has been a send-up or an homage to Chen Chen, whose latest book I have just began reading.

His latest book is entitled “Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency.”

I have a small, coffin-shaped apartment that offers me extensive therapy that is not paid by any insurance.

I am soon to move out of this home, for which I am grateful, having lived here for over four years now.

That prospect makes me very giddy and to that I say the sooner the better.

True or False: Therapy is a digging oneself out of situations that we either brought upon ourselves or the circumstances arose unexpectedly in such ways that the fault(s) cannot be attributed to us or else they exist due to some combination of both.

mmmdccclxiv

Things Not Mentioned

     He says his mother has a couple of months.
                                           —Chen Chen

So I wind up, and quickly,
talking about anything and

everything. It’s a thing I do
that ingratiates me with a

stranger or two. I don’t do
this with strangers very

often. Nowadays, strangers
are all I have. “Including my

self,” he said. “So you like
talking anything and every

thing with almost anyone,
even the occasional stranger?”

I couldn’t open my mouth,
thinking this must sound a

bit like therapy. This isn’t
therapy. I don’t like to talk

much. “That’s the craziest
thing I ever did hear, dear.”

He is just the coolest thing
ever. Like a computer, I can

feel the whoosh of my thoughts
as they go through the massive

bundle of stuff I, myself, would
rather ignore. For now. Maybe

forever. Which, as it turns out,
seems like a very, very small

amount of time. Time was
when thoughts did not go

about whooshing. Slide
shows that zip through

the carousel, giving the
audience but a mere

glimpse of most every
slide. What each must

wonder when they go
so swiftly through my

memories. His precious
pressured speech got all

clogged up. Time was
a square wheel. “Oh,

to be young again!”
he thought, and then

he collapsed into a
crumple onto the floor

where he now lays. Just
on the other side of that 

great big orange sofa.
[The lights dim to dark.]

mmmdccclxiii

Can We Do This?

     We were reading to ourselves. Sometimes to others.
                                                     —John Ahsbery

A little self-aggrandizement.
A shaker full of poetry for
your pommes frites?

Ah, heck, I’ve been
doing this for decades.
When is an elder old

enough to whom one
younger should defer?
Never, of course (a horse

is a horse). I have yet to
understand what type of
validation this would be --

everything I do is (for) a
validation of some sort.
Would you be amenable

with variations by hue?
by flavor? by genus or
species? Given that the

poet, otherwise known as
a carney or a witch (did
the Sirens rhyme?), is

poetical, let the usses
do the voodoo that who
do. Let’s imagine for

whimsy’s sake that
we are not all (wink,
wink) witty wordsters.

Some of us may be
normal. I say that we
let a layperson decide.

I myself am from
Tuscaloosa. And
what do we say

down in Tuscaloosa?
We say it’s all about
career path. We got

that from Mentors
for Dummies. Wasn’t
this supposed to be

an advertisement,
both meta and
metaphorical,

about a new
side gig. I
hear it might

be related to me,
to this here, to
all of this nonsense.

Side gigs are
helping the
economy and

they’re an ex
cellent way to
make an extra buck.

Decide what?


We Can’t Do This?

mmmdccclxii

The Love Songs of General George Custerflunk

I’m of a mind to make a fist
and I a lowly pacifist.
My mind is such a
fluffernutter.

mmmdccclxi

Ears of Corn
(“What a Racy Mouth!”)

That was fun! I
do appreciate your
seeing right through
me while hearing me

out. Thank you so
very much! Okay,
so, now I shall
shut up for

a few moments.
I’m not in any
hurry. I vent
you vent, right?

Your turn.
. . . . Your turn...

mmmdccclx

Thoroughbred

     Yet, you were “splendid.”
     You have answered every question.
                              —John Ashbery

Would that answering each query
lobbed at me meant getting each
“correct.” I’d rather appreciate
keeping my artistic distance this

evening. Any objections? I heard
none (someone shouted “Liar!”), but
I’m not listening [cupping hands over
ears making noises as if could not at

all communicate, even if tried]. Oh,
sorry, company’s arrived. And I’m
exhausted (would that there were a
sofa into which I might resolutely sink).

I woke up this morning in a panic, put
on the top half of a suit, logged in just
in time for what turned out to be an
old school phone call. Somehow, it

appeared that I’d caught up with myself.
Come to think of it, that was yesterday.

mmmdccclix

An Articulate Arthritic

     If I were you I’d get an unlisted number
     then think about growing up, just a little.
                                       —John Ashbery

We all make presumptions. Sometimes
it’s presumptuous not to. At this point,
a total stranger, and hopefully not, but
quite possibly, the person known more
than just rhetorically as your emergency

contact, twists his spine, inverts his fingers,
stretches his leg out absolutely horizontal to
the floor, bobbles his head a bit in preparation
for a jerk to the left and a jerk to the right,
each jerk has his face ninety degrees at odds

with his pre-twisted spine, all to the hoopla
of a six year old attacking a slab of bubble
wrap that fits atop the entire living room
floor. Pop-poppity-pops that cruise swiftly
into a flourish of rattatat-tats and then into

a crescendo of rolled r’s that last about as
long as the movie credits. Oh, him? He’s
not a bad habit fomenting at the tip of your
tongue. Nah. He’s that frothing case of
human rabies that sweeps you off your feet,

and then deposits you in the gutter during the
splendor of a springtime storm. And the thunder
claps make way for that particular downpour
of what he likes to call “nutcracking hail-balls.”

mmmdccclviii

Problematic Banana

     What you see and what you hear depends
     a great deal on where you are standing. It
     also depends on what sort of person you are.
                                                —C.S. Lewis

The boyfriend with the lisp (that’s me!)
gets asked by the dairy queen to say
slushy seven times without taking a
breath. The joke about how Noah’s

arc was more of a ninety degree angle.
She smells sequels by the sherbet stand.
But which flavor? Of all the sorbets in all
of the soirees,,,, If you’re vanilla (like me!)

you tend to go with the one that’s universally
recognized as correct. Obsessive compulsive
disorders, I’ve known a few, but the ones that
are anal pilferers take the cake. The fruitcake. So

what if I am the only person in the universe that I
have even partially come to know. I spend my holidays
getting to know Carmen Miranda’s dirty little secret.
The bruised yellow laundry unfolded a pleasant memory.

mmmdccclvii

The Complicated Gimmick

How would you like to be two places
at once? To exist simultaneously, say,

at two points on the vector of a life?
What do you call a person who never

gets bored with themself? Ease over
into the nonsensical and say that again.

Warble it. What, no utterances what
soever? Now we’re talking. The subject

at hand was very handsy. We should
all be so lucky. Elvis Costello singing

“Every day. Every day. Every day I
write the book.” Those charges were

pre-nuptial, which says nothing of
their relevance now, nor ever. He’s

in such hot water that he’s hopscotching
to Lollipop. Insert finger in mouth and

wait for the appropriate time to flip out
your POP! The tarts at the top of the

charts, these days. Whatever age it is
when we begin to think such ridiculous

things. So what if it has a good beat
and you can dance to it? That’s when

I reach my limit. The gimmick, he
supposes, is not so very complicated.

mmmdccclvi

Nor Triumph Nor Resounding Tragedy

She did not want to think
of him. But it was Feburary.
And truth be told, he would’ve
wanted her to be about this sad.

The old tree looked as if this
time would be the time that it
would finally give in, bent as it
was so parallel to the very ground

from which it had with such fragility
sprung those several dozen years 

ago. Do not stare at the darkness, 

into its cursed, unholy face, was what

each lingering leaf held on to tell
the world around it, each that still
held on for dear life as the wind
worked endlessly at separation

and inevitable splintering of every
thing that got into its way, with its
corrupt torrential breath, which
was a screaming movement that,

as always, made its way right
up and to the cabin door, which,
for hours of that foul night would
lick and bite at it with such a

harried fuss that the door would all 

but certainly give in to all the fiend

ish howl of wound-inflicting wind, to
leave a gaping hole from which the

home could then breathily consume
all those who dreamt that they
were safe, tucked tightly into
beds; surely by morning they’d

each and all be dead, having given
hours hence their last thanks with
out even a chanced farewell. But
just before they arose, the storm had

made its way into the next property,
in hopes of catching it a little easier
to overwhelm and then destroy. So
there she was again, her butt beside

the creekbed so each of her toes 

would feel the ripple and swirl of
the fast-risen whoosh of water that
was somehow held as it moved wetly

west, all those horrid thoughts were
swimming frenetically about inside
her head that she had nearly found
her dreams again before she felt a

little tug and she, a bit startled,
looked up and out to see the red-
snubbed cork go helzapoppin’ for

a moment and then slip distinctly

down and out of sight such that
her bamboo cane unstraightened
into such an arc that she was all
but certain that it was about to

snap in two. But tragedy lost out 

to triumph once again, just like it
apparently had last night. Soon,
just before the whiskered cat that

had been filleted and sliced just 

so went a-sizzle on the grill it 

would be hung upon the scales 

kept in her father’s barn. As things

turned out she’d been hung the
same way, and to the ounce, one
miraculous morning long hence, yet 

as godforsaken as today, when all

the remnants of torture had laid
the land bare. That was the night
she lost her mother. She brought
the cool raw fingers of the fish out

to her dad and watched him crack
a bit of a grin as he lay each one
down upon the grill on this fog
ridden morning full of the promise

of upcoming torment and disarray.
They fed without much thinking,
this but mostly contented family.
It was to be another damp and

intermittently gleaming day.
A time for work and the dis
pensation of unpleasant think
ing. And that is what she did.