mmmcmxiii

A Day in the Life
of Dot the Dewdrop

Dot the Dewdrop
was always slickening up
the Yellow Brick Road.

She’d take her sweet time
of a morning to evaporate
for the day, checking out

the cabbage patch for any
extra drops stuck within
the skins of each cabbage

for which she could bump
and combine. She’d stop,
to smell, or whet her

appetite, really, at the
wonderful wisteria and
the glistening marigolds,

rolling herself up and
down blooms just to get
a sniff-taste of their

various deliciousnesses.
She’d wave at everyone
as she passed Mountain

Town and Plymouth Rock,
only she really didn’t have
the nuts and bolts to wave

or even lift a finger, so her
attempts came out more
like icicled baby’s breath

or glub-glubs. The town
folk new it was Dot,
recognizing the sound

from the previous
morning, and the
morning before that,

so each said hello in
their own way. Dot’s
goal was always to make

it all the way to the Ivory 

Tower that stood tall and 

gleaming just beyond the

summer squash garden.
But, alas, she could
never even make

it to the squash,
for just this side
of the yellow-orange

paradise she’d inch
her way toward each
and every morning,

just like this one (and 

this is the tragedy that
befalls all poor

dewdrops, their
memory being
worse than that

of a goldfish), she’d
roll right into the
Suckin’ Muck Swamp,

having forgotten of
its very existence.
And that swamp

would suck Dot
the Dewdrop
right down into

a void, a tasteless 

state of non-existence
for dewdrops,

basically. But,
just after midnight
each night, just as

the bells could be
heard tolling
from the Ivory

Tower in the
distance, that
swamp would

burp Dot the
Dewdrop right
out, all the way

back up to the
fork in the Yellow
Brick Road where

she’d regain con
sciousness, and once 

again she’d giddily be

gin her daily roll
down the gold
and gleaming

road. And, like
the morning
before, Dot was

the happiest little
drop of moisture
in all of Kansas.

mmmcmxii

That Timeless Game

Suzanne sat at her back bay window

contemplating the herb garden that

shone like resplendent sea glass in the

in the distance, well past the pasture

filled with unbundled, newly cropped

sagebrush-colored hay that was spread

like a succulent summer camp between

them. Beyond that was the mystical sun

breaking from the earth like hot lava.

The garden was hers. She’d cultivated

so carefully each individual set of plants,

gathered them from the corners of the

world herself, bringing each seed, each

sapling carefully back like Jack’s precious

beans to the only home she’d known for

over eighty years. The garden had been

her defiant act, her one undeniable scheme

to somehow shake in some small way her

destiny, it having been, up until the middle

of her adolescence, her grandmother’s

swath of hydrangeas. In those days,

her every thought was of exotic locales

that were anywhere but here, she

remembered dreaming of the once-

famed but now forgotten Golden Gate,

to which she would eventually travel,

a revolutionary trip, from which she’d

arrive home afterwards with such bounty

that her garden grew four-fold in a singular

season, and all simply thanks to the contents

of the packed and soil-stained apron within

which she had returned. She bent her head 

down, as if in prayer, and got lost. The fig tree

leaves strewn upon the table beneath her chin 

were the maps from her many journeys. She

thought of how she’d had the hydrangeas

demolished, her grandmother lying here,

in what was her bedroom, dying.  And how

she had known that scene would be, was,

one of the last things her nemesis

would see. “The grass is always

greener,” she’d always thought,

but not without an omnipresent

air of revenge that swirled into

and out of her nostrils, which

were flaring out and folding to

nearly closed at a much quicker

pace than usual this evening.

She reached for a leaf on the

table, barely thinking of the

traditional meal she had

planned and had been

preparing for dinner

that evening, a meal

that was never realized.

“The grass is always greener,”

she thought, slumped, her

dead eyes filling just enough

that there were two distinct

drips that fell onto the leaf just

below her pearl-laden neck.

mmmcmxi

Parklet

What to do with backlog of

no-good blather. I used to

sleep with you and yet

attractive artists everywhere

are making future plans and

wanting to leave things more

open. I’ve done open. I like

being open to new ideas. I am

a bit more suspect with open

with regard to permanent

relationships, just between

you and me. And it’s not that

any or all of my relations of such 

have been impermanent, but if

I begin to, as I like to say, in

vest my time with someone,

the notion is I’m working on

a possible permanence. So.

Marauding Blood Pressure,

tentative title. Only now add

diabetes, two bouts with Covid

(we can still discuss this, right?),

testicular cancer (this one should

come with a caveat, no?), Work-

related Massage at the Ethiopian

Restaurant, tentative title. Oh,

and repeat after me: Tuesday,

get a better job! Go ahead.

Ready? Tuesday, get a job!

Get a job! Just get a job!

P.S. Keep November Free.

Tentative title.

mmmcmx

Vignette

The cat’s energy
lying in bed. It
had the purriest
meow I used to
remember. It’s
11am, not 9:30
and I am think
ing of an itch be
tween 1 and 10.
This day could
be hurling thru
a cacophony of
street signs and
umbrellas. What
used to be taxis,
taxicabs. Instead
the redundancy of
a dog howling at a
cat who can’t hear
the noises she is
making, but the
human can feel
the vibrations
of her purr, of
his animal / not
his animal. And
the human closes
his eyes to the
noise of the
street. Opens
his senses to
the vibes of
being alive.
Of the cat
long gone.
Of the bone
flown at the
dog. Of the
day that will
happen with
out him.

mmmcmix

Reticence

Write about how
Mumbles Mumblebee
always mumbled.

Go for a long pain-
addled walk. Writhe
in bed for hours.

Pick one. Accentuate
the positive. Don’t
do the opposite,

that’d be dumb.
Also, don’t sit around
thinking of the many

ways in which you
are a loser. If you go
that route, before you

get too carried away,
call me, contact me,
I’m easy to get in

touch with, and I’ve
a long list of losers
you can alternatively

contemplate. If you’re
thinking about doing
something fun, do it.

If it seems impossible
to do at that very
moment, make a

plan. Set goals.
Reach them. Make
a lot of plans to do

fun things. Remember
that television show
you wanted to watch?

That movie you were
dying to see? These
days there’s no excuse,

unless you happen to
be as poor as I am.
If you’re as poor as I

am, make a list of
things you can do
when you’re not

poor anymore. But
don’t stop there!
Then you go out and

you get yourself some
money. This may sound
easy. It’s not. But I

believe you can do it.
I believe in you.
Don’t you? Believe!

mmmcmviii

Humdrum Bob

Click
double-
click goes
the fan as it
turns. Every
fifteen seconds
it does this. Then
there’s the whir of
the blade itself. A
hmmmmmmmmmnn
sort of sound that Bob
calls his white noise.
His phone dings once
in a while. A ting that
hangs in the air in a bit
of a metallic way, usually
followed about a minute
later with another ting – 

only that’s a notification 

for the same thing as 

the first ting. Bob does

not have any friends, 

but he’s set up an alert 

or two. When there’s
local news of a bank
robbery, for example.
Or when there’s any
news on the members
of Abba. Or Fleetwood
Mac. Turns out lately
that those tings are
mostly about death.
Death is not Bob’s
favorite subject.
Click double-click
goes the fan as it
turns. Every
fifteen seconds.

mmmcmvii

Unwung

Stuffed
in the bed
like a baby’s
doll. Can’t
stand up,
can barely
crawl. I’m
’ridden all
day, no
way to get
up, get out,
or play, a
roiling pain
in my middle
comes and
goes like the
waves of a
dark sea on
a stormy day.
Face it like
a fact, I am
grounded like
a bird that a
hound unwung.

mmmcmvi

Temples on Fire

We both have headaches.
What a bore! And all of my
ailments feel the need for
their moment in the spotlight.

Hello, says the knee, which I
sprained about month and a
half ago. Oh, shut up, knee!
It’s well on its way to recovery.

Though now there’s the occasional
pop and an all-to-often angle in the
gait or pose or moment in the middle
of a stretch, perhaps in the middle

of the night, when there’s an out
ragious bolt of pain that runs up
and down from the knee that once
it hits my brain has me put out a

really helpless sort of yelp that
actually wants to be the loudest
scream. But then it’s gone, and
I’m back to pretending I’m walking

or sleeping or posing like normal.
And there’s a new incision that’s
just to the left of a nearly 35-year
old slightly smaller but otherwise

mirrored image scar – they both
appear just below my hip. Or,
without knowing where on earth
the hip might be, exactly, let’s

just say they each appear, well,
one slightly below and one slightly
above where I (initially) wrap my
belt around my gut of a morning.

Depending on the season or the
month or just depending, the
edge of those jeans or slacks
might ride up or they might

ride down my body before
finally settling, if settling
does occur. And while
the appendectomy scar

(and it had burst by the
time of the surgery) hasn’t
even the ghost of any pain
left, it remained for me for

years just a conversation
piece. I like scars. The
other incision, on the other
hand, is less than two weeks

old. And the surrounding area
of that one is experiencing a
bit of a renaissance in pain quite
unlike that experienced after my

appendectomy. Am I still not
talking further about it? Perhaps
my reticence gives it all away.
What I can say is that today

I was informed that I am, as
far as can be detected by an
MRI done a week after surgery,
cancer-free. And that’s pretty

straightforward, between you
and me. And just as straight
forwardly something to cele
brate. Which I’m trying to do,

really, I’m trying quite intently,
but truth be told, there’s too
much else to worry about
these days, and not a soul

with which to celebrate, at
least at the moment, and
I’m not counting on there
being any. Is that why

such good news feels oddly
melancholy? Or is it that I’m
just in denial. Well, if you could
only ask me again tomorrow.

mmmcmv

A Quick Drive Through
The Land of Dead Ends

I’m feeling as beaten up
as a trashcan tonight and
I’ve only been up for a few
short hours. I’ve half a mind

to mercilessly delve into the
details of how I got from
there to here but as far back
as my memory will presently

take me I was still very much
a trashcan. Should I feel bad
or embarrassed because this
chitter-chatter is superficial?

That doesn’t mean that all
I’ve said is not but a hundred
percent accurate, plus—and here,
I’ll add the slightest bit of intrigue

by saying just between me and you—
I’m experiencing something now
that has come and gone a bit of
late: the inclination of “I’d rather

not talk about it.” “About what?”
you surely don’t even consider
asking, and it’s not so much out
of politesse, but it’s a characteristic

all too overly common among us
normal human folk; something I
used to lament in days that were,
and not so long ago, which is that

we just do not care. Now, I ask
something that is rhetorical, just
for the sake of bringing this whole
thing to a neatly wrapped dead end.

It’s a chicken and egg question, so
to speak. And that is, which came
first, us not caring, or us not having
the damnedest inclination whatsoever

of talking just a little bit about it,
whatever our individual “it” may be?

mmmcmiv

I Toucan Right Bat Pullems

And what’s wrong with that,
really? Nothing, of course.
It’s still a free country. Or
is it? Of course, it’s not. So
why not exercise such mad
ness as much as one can,
right? Today I began to
catch up, after surgery
(do imagine this for a
moment as a diary entry
by me, the poet, the real
poet), which was a week
and a day ago, followed

by an MRI or is it a CT
scan, I never know if
these are one in the
same or two separate
entities altogether.
Will I now look up the
difference? Okay, in
somewhat anxious
nostalgia of times past,
I’ll go ahead and do just
that. What is usually said
at moments like this. How
about, “Hang on?”

CT Scan: 1. an X-ray image
using a form of tomography
in which a computer controls
the motion of the X-ray source
and detectors, processes the
data, and produces the image

MRI: short for magnetic resonance
imaging, a medical examination
performed using magnetic resonance
imaging. [okay, duh, so upon further
examination, what is that?:] a medical
imaging technique used in radiology to
form pictures of the anatomy and the
physiological processes of the body.
MRI scanners use strong magnetic
fields , magnetic field gradients, and
radio waves to generate images of
organs of the body. Also, MRI could
mean the images obtained from such.

Does this help me? Now? Only in
that it bides time until my next 
scheduled appointment with my
surgeon. Is the cancer all gone?
Right now I have no idea. Does
this cause an inordinate amount
of anxiety within me. Not yet.
But a goodly amount, for sure.
For I had my MRI yesterday. By
today those results are sitting
somewhere. How do I get them?
Do I have to wait a week in order
to hear what the findings are?

I began this piece with a joke, the
way I ended the last piece, in which
I toucan right bat pullems. This is
surely true, even probably in the
case of what you see before you
now. But this is more of a grappling.
More of an antidote to, not writing
poorly, this is a meandering thing
I type for many reasons, mostly
just to get something finished so
that I can post it as a poem as I
am two behind for the month. In
this way is discipline a good thing?
I say yes. Meanwhile, do I still
have cancer? This I do not know.
But should be able to discern between

now, the day after I had my post-surgery
MRI, and the moment in which I accidentally
pour a full cup of water all over myself. This i 

just did. Yes.  So maybe, rather, between now

and when?  Soon?  Yes, but time like this is not

anything that finds soon so easily or delicately.

mmmcmiii

Stardust in a Tight-ass Box

What’s wrong with
checking online?

Where I am led to
believe that tiny

creatures from
some nebula—

lizard people
of ancient times—

have been monitoring
us for, well, obviously

quite some time now.
Do these lizard people

still exist? Have they
evolved? Do they

float through the
stratosphere with

Casper the Friendly
Ghost? Casper and

Friends, that is? Or
am I hallucinating?

As proof, here, have
some air. I picked

it up late last night.
It smells like musty

cereal, but believe
you me, it packs

quite a punch.
After which Judy

starts her very own
fight club. That was

so low it gave me
sticker shock.

Come now, calm
down, what are

you going to do,
anyway, sue me?

Yes, I read about
the mandate. The

moratorium on
higgledy-piggledy.

But look yonder
at those hills. And

at that mountain of
pickled pig’s feet.

No “I told you so,”
eh? Why, look who’s

flushing with embarr
assment now. P.S.

I toucan right
bat pullems.

mmmcmii

That was wild.

I take each book out

of the bag, slowly make

a stack of them on the

coffee table, become a

person who has the men

tal capacity for enjoyment,

a person who wants to hide

his true self. The urgent

violence that is honesty

calls me out of a long

nap (was I dreaming?),

and then ducks back into

the hut like a cat smashed

between a row of books and

a wall. So as to share who

ever I am now with whoever

I may be awake (asleep?), I

take a red crayon out of the

kitchen drawer, the one with

all of the crayons, walk through

the living room and down the

hall, turning left into the

bathroom, turn on the

shower as hot as it

gets, and write in

red on the glass

shower door,

the outer

one: I’m

so afraid

of losing.

It’s a shame,

this grasping of

my red interior in

such an honest way

(the violence that is

honesty, I mouth a

second time, and

then a third,

testing it

out). I

clutch

my heart,

hoping to

narrowly

escape

the ironic

beauty of

certain vandalisms.

mmmcmi

Time Is Mean

it’s sunday.  i went to sleep

this morning around 9am.

woke up around 3:30 in the

afternoon.  now it’s seven

minutes to tomorrow, which

i need not say will be a mon

day when it arrives.  if it

does arrive.  and, okay, i’m

being a bit dramatic adding

what day of the week it is,

given that i do not work,

given that i am recuperat

ing from surgery, so have

no reason to feel guilty for

not being super productive

over the past few days, ex

cept i do have a reason,

given that my money is

dwindling, unemployment

payments ending in less

than a week, no job pros

pects, really, and have

been applying and inter

viewing incessantly since

my last gig, which ended

over half a year ago. so...

time. it hasn’t really been

‘on my side’ for quite a

while now, for quite some

time. oh, well. so i sit, or

mostly lie here, recovering

(i hope) from what may be

a typical ailment for a 55-

year-old, which basically

means a very scary, life-

altering event that gives

pause to a lowly human,

or should, i suppose, and

it does, only i don’t have

time for a pause.  in fact,

i’ve been about the bus

iness of trying to get

back to living for quite

some, well, time, now,

and that’s what i really,

really want to do this mo

ment. to get back to it.

tick goes the clock in

my head, and all the

various other ticking

timepieces worldwide.

tock, they all go. tick,

tock, tick, tock goes my

heart, i can feel it, lying

here, having done nothing

all day.  and now it’s mon

day.  tick.  tock.  tick.  tock.

and so i do my little trick

that sometimes works of

crawling as deep inside

of myself as i can crawl,

and i  s-l-o-w  i-t  a-l-l,

bent, hunched as much

as my body can fold,

deep as i can go within.

and i watch the 8 go to

9.  it’s 12:09am on a

monday.  tick.  tock.

tick.  tock.  hmph.

mmmcm

An Esteemed Lack of Controversy

is generally boring.
high-falutin’ love
is as mundane as
ennui. we agree,

shake hands with
a firm grip into
each other’s
fingers,

then scratch
our heads over
why such a yawn
is held up as ideal

for time immemorial.
no wonder the check-
out lanes wallpapered
with tabloids. no won

der the us versus them.
no wonder the green
that’s grabbed by
getting our goats

on the glossy
subways of
the virtual.
but that’s

concocted.
what a fraud
to live so easy
face to face

only to hop
onto our alternate
realities, be spoonfed
bait that makes us

hungry for war?
and with whom?
cartoons? or else
the network of animated

avenues has us each
craving fluffed robotic
swells of puff. our
heads gone poof

into powder like
some ugly god
stepped on us.
look at me!

strip these
idols of the
algorithms
punched into

existence by
the slave labor
from which these
monsters were

born. set yourself
free. look at me
and see my eyes.
yours are dazzling

and have al
ready set me
afire. and free.

mmmdcccxcix

An Articulation of the Hopeful

push mind
through time
for several weeks.
see what? say

“say i love you,”
but one time too
many. stop. stop.
full stop. full—stoop.

say “i do,”
but once.
don’t think
about tomorrow

evening yesterday.
everything combined
equals the weight of the
world. pick me up at

the airport
with a kiss
on the lips.
having been

warned that there’ll be
tongue: airport kisses
are a tango that—
what a

goofy
couple
—get all
tanged up,

entangled.
fly to the moon
for the bungle.
a twin-bundle of joy

that after take-off
does not disembark,
never once
disentangles.

mmmdcccxcviii

let me say a few words about tone

unfortunately, this only
works if we can do this
forever. so close your
eyes and concentrate.

the preamble was such
a rush. there were a lot
of tears. and a few sneezes.
the ceremonial match was

struck. I made a vow to
this. you made a vow to
that. then we snuck away
through the garden, which

was full of thyme and onions.
nobody knew any better.

mmmdcccxcvii

nerdy by design

14 months in a
house made of
pee. the place
where connect
icut ate rhode
island. anyth
ing could eat
rhode island.
as for pough
keepsie? he
put on his
glasses. i
turned up
my hearing
aid so that i
could hear it
when he said
“poke me.” the
distrust swells like
lava in the center of
the universe. something
about gravity wells. i think
of standing water. and
castanets. the universe
is being swallowed by
fatigue. i put on my
glasses. he turns off
his hearing aid so that
he can’t hear me snore.
there isn’t always a back
door. press the button
for the escape hatch.
don’t forget your
binocolurs or
your (too late!)
parachute.

mmmdcccxcvi

How I Lost All My Charisma

Who isn’t more charming
with a roof can’t pretend
it’s a rhetorical question.

mmmdcccxcv

poem written as if it were 2011

I’m looking good today,

strutting my stuff after

surgery. I’ve been told

that most employment

involves a lot of cleaning

bathrooms. Once you

reach the point where

‘doing the right thing’

is not quite as ‘forward-

looking’ as it used to be,

then it’s well within your

rights to become villainous.

A villain, however, must be

able to strut his stuff without

a limp (unless he’s older

then 40 and looks ‘well-worn’).

Furthermore, said gait should

not involve a series of painful

grimaces. His bills should be

neatly stacked upon the dining

room table in a standard spot

that is slightly off-center, but

each bill for no longer than until

the date which it is due. However,

this stack should gently increase its

height over time. The kitchen and

living room will be wholly redesigned

no less than once every five years.

February is generally a good month

for this to occur. Success is only

implied until the new table has been

complimented two dozen separate

times, each by different guests

on different occasions. Once the

third kitchen/living room redesign

has transpired, there should be

no more bills, not even one, not

ever, atop the dining table.

mmmdcccxciv

healthier mental & physical health

this is a medium
through which

this has been a
way for me

it is with much
difficulty that i

my honesty gets
the best of me

me and my
big mouth

i miss being able
to use my mouth

but this is
by all means

the best avenue
with which i might

tell you,
the only one

(or more or less)
for whom telling

seems the
appropriate

thing
(isn’t it

funny?
up until

now,
who

knew?)
to do

mmmdcccxciii

a new restaurant

i stepped into a new
restaurant in my
neighborhood late
this afternoon.  it

was dark, had a
hip feel to it, it
was divided into
two sections, the

bar area, where it
turns out there were
quite a few folks sitting
in almost hidden booths,

and the section i entered,
which looked like more of
a standard restaurant.
it was a japanese restaurant,

with a fair share of raw fish
items on one side of the one-
page double-sided menu, and
on the other side were things

like skewers and ramen. i had
the seafood ramen.  and it was
amazing.  two or three things of
note are that i don’t have much

money and the extra amount i’ve
been getting monthly ends in less
than two weeks when i get my
final unemployment check, and,

if i don’t have a job by then, i
have to go back on county
government assistance, which
pays the rent and leaves me with

about a fifth of the amount of
cash per month that i have been
receiving since I began receiving
unemployment checks around

christmas.  a caveat to that note
is that since june i’ve been looking
for a permanent full-time job – no
more contract work – in the city.

there have been tons of jobs, and
i’ve applied to hundreds since july,
and have had dozens of interviews,
many of them 2nd and 3rd meetings,

and received no offers whatsoever.
my resume is impeccable except for
the fact that i’ve only been working
spottily since i left my last long-term,

full-time job.  that was a dozen years
ago. so, for example, after being laid
off due to covid in march of 2020, i
did not work again until march

of 2022, so already, this has turned out 

unexpectedly.  hope that is not unfortun

ate.  my intention was to focus on the 

beautiful.  but i seem to be having

trouble focusing on that.  and that makes
sense, disciplined as i truly can be at times,
given that tomorrow i’m going in for surgery
to have a cancerous growth removed.  my

chances of a complete and easy recovery
are, i’m told, excellent, and nobody, including

me, should be worried.  it’s just that this has
had me a bit anxious and certainly dwelling

on my mortality.  i’m 55.  this is to me the
biggest health scare i’ve encountered.  but
yet i’ve had a month’s bout of pneumonia
while living in a homeless shelter, i’ve had

surgery after my appendix burst, i’ve had
two separate experiences with covid, the
first before the vaccinations even arrived,
so perhaps i’m being hyperbolic?  i’ve also

had two pieces of basal cell carcinoma
removed from my face, the easiest and
most survivable cancer, and for the first
one i had to convince the doctor to do a

biopsy, given that i was under 30 years
old, and while i knew my family was very
susceptible to such things, the doctor said
that given my age it was too unlikely it was

cancer to biopsy.  he turned out to be
incorrect.  so, who’s to be trusted in
such moments as these?  but i was
not to be going into this (i want to

add ‘how can i not?’) – i was talking
about my first sit-down at a restaurant
new to me, and one of japanese cuisine
at that.  when i was working, and had

money to spare, i’d eat at japanese
restaurants at least twice a week on
average.  and while i’m not quite that
much of a foodie, i’d find myself in a

new, hip restaurant or a long-standing
high-falutin’ one on fairly regular occasions,
this being when i had local friends (many
of whom still reside in the city, but none

of whom i ever hear from any more,
despite my efforts to re-engage over 

a period of several years, and yes, i’m
a little bitter, and continue to articulate

this, and i am really feeling it this week, 

having just found out less than a week ago 

that i had to have surgery, and realizing that,
just as it has been since all of these folks

either drifted away or, worse, ended what
i thought was a real friendship, and with some
horrible excuse, as i was going through the
worst crisis i’d ever encountered, and was

seeking any help, any sensibility, that might
reel me back in.... but, not only do i have
none of these folks in my life, have in fact
had no one locally with whom i have any

regular interface whatsoever, by which
i mean that i converse with in a proximity
within which i could reach out and touch
that person, in manty years.  this is the single

most difficult thing that i have ever been
through.  so, anyway, i do expose my
most crucial foibles, do i not?).  needless
to say, this visit to this restaurant that

was new to me brought back wonderful
memories, and some difficult ones, but
was mostly a joyous experience.  i had
a bowl of ramen and a diet coke.  it

wasn’t really even that expensive.
and that is all i was wanting to tell
you about, this familiar and sentimental
dining experience that i had just a few

hours ago.  but, as i’m all but embarrassed
to say, here and now, to you, that experience
has been quite tarnished, especially now that
i’ve attempted to write about it.  for what, to

me, and hopefully to you, as well, are obvious
reasons now, given my bit of venting, my bout
with drama tossed in your direction, for which
i must really apologize, and yet, also, must

express gratitude, for your allowing me this
opportunity, which i so sincerely hope does
not taint in any way what we might hence
forth have going with this perhaps imaginary

rapport.  does it?   i do humbly beg
forgiveness and wave my imaginary
wand over all that exists in an effort
to release us both from any bad vibes

caused by what i have heretofore written.
are you there?  if so, don’t go just yet.  

please?  of course i have the choice of 

whether or not to hit send, of giving us 

both a break, perhaps (?), by thinking a 

day or two before deciding whether this will 

go out to you all.  but i think we both know 

(of course) that it’ll soon be up for you in all 

of its glory. with love and gratitude and 

apologies, from me to you.

mmmdcccxcii

dicey

okay, hello,
i’m here (but
for how much
longer?) – and

sure, it’s time
to start asking
these questions –
maybe it’s never

a bad time to keep
that thought in the
back of your head,
of course this is true –

and especially now,
I so want to confess,
and I do. Surgery is
scheduled tomorrow

to remove a cancerous
growth. The prognosis
is excellent, not to worry.
Not for you to worry. I

am good at doing that
on my own. I’ve told
a few folks, of course,
but have found that

this rapid turn of
events (it’s been
less than a week
since the initial

examination)
has stoked the
embers of a lot
of bitterness that

I’ve held at bay
for quite some
time now. But
even bringing it

up so vaguely
has me feeling
weak, wrong,
wronged as I

have obviously
been, I’ve made
no bones about
remaining con

fident of that,
even as I ripped
that chip from
off my shoulder

years ago (the
ghost of that
chip raises its
ugly head now

and again, to
which any of
you who pay
attention, are

you there?
would know
all too well—
and I apologize

for that, I really
do). But, fuck!
I do this as I
must, and not

at all as I had,
when such a
thing might
arise, intended,

worked so very
diligently to avoid.
And anyway, I’m
fine, there’s hardly

any anxiety, I mean,
the worst of it is really
the part I just skimmed
through quickly so as not

to exude too much blatant
bitterness. That, as I just
mentioned, is the weakness
I might pile upon a body that

in no small part is already
aged and infirm and needs a
bit of time to rid itself of all
corruption, of any further ill

will, etc. I’ll be back to waxing
just as eloquently or as plainly
as I can about beauty soon
enough. Yes. Rest assured

that I’m not going nowhere
yet. I’ve a lot yet undone and
this limping carapace fills daily
with more imagined purpose.

mmmdcccxci

anywhere but here

i’m trying to divert my focus

to what is beautiful.  there are

any number of beautiful diversions.

so why exist in the darkness all of

the time?  why be sad at all?  ever?

this is certainly not a question that i

have normally had to ask myself.  but

it is today, and has been at times of

recent.  so what do i find myself doing?

i am watching the black and white whir at

the top of a short film about diane di prima.

and this i happened upon a few short

moments ago.  on the very the same

device onto which i’m presently punching

out these lines.  this is what happens when

one goes through the tiny bit of effort, it’s

effortless at times, quite often actually, of

diverting one’s attention away from the

bleak and toward the beautiful.  the blur

or the whir of the black and white film,

hardly paying attention to whatever it

is upon which the focus of the camera

leans, it’s just a blur as if seen out the

window on a train-ride in the fifties or early

sixties, there could be windows, out of which

could be buildings, structures with insides

scattered with real people that existed

at the time this was filmed.  people

who cohabited, worked or shopped.

follks who flirted, debated or argued.

what this blur gives my eyelids,

eyelids that are from the future, so

to speak, is a bit of a buzz, a slight lift,

as the words, which were spoken by the

subject of the film itself, but yet heard

by me as if simultaneously, yet some sixty

or so years later, are sounds which mirror

the movement of the horizon, or whatever it

is that shimmers and glimmers on the screen,

whatever structures or open spaces are/were

being passed, by whatever passengers there might

be/have been, in whatever train or moving vehicle, i’m

guessing it’s public transportation, it could be a volkswagen

van with large windows through which all this flitting and

flickering occur(ed...), this vague movement from right

to left, as if someone, or as if the camera itself, is being

transported, just so that what it picks up on film, to be

watched in this case several decades into a future, lifts

these eyelids with a bit of a buzz, a literal high that enters

my heretofore sad or bleak self; i am lifted a bit by just

taking in the sight, the movement that exists on the

screen of the device that i soon thereafter watch these,

my very own lines of description, pile into a shaped form

in front of me, a form that could, if one is only a bit

imaginative, look a bit like a cliff, or a bluff, that is

reaching higher and higher into the sky, that is

beautiful, that is like no other cliff or bluff, that

reaches, reaches, reaches, until it has made its

place, becomes its own fresh location.  upon 

a planet, something like but not quite earth,

begins to be formed in and around it, and the

possibilities for more beauty on this planet, in this

new location, partially formed by me, partially formed

by the device onto which my fingers are audibly clanging,

partially informed by the short film about diane di prima,

which i just watched a few minutes ago, are all giving

me this gift, a new cliff or bluff, a mountain, with texture 

and height, all of which are a beautiful diversion from a

previously bleak morning. this is how one might easily, with

very little effort, improve one’s outlook, transporting

from a sad or bleak moment into an alternative

moment, a beautiful one, in fact.  do you see it?

mmmdcccxc

not quite malicious intent

it’s not that i’m hungry, no,
not that at all, it’s just that
i do feel rather understuffed.
said the cucumber to the
goalpost. how merciless the
divide between us! that’s an
understatement that always
has me sneezing into a pair
of imaginary underpants.
they’re about two, perhaps
three sizes smaller than any
skivvies i’ve worn in, oh, a
few decades. don’t count
me among the delusional,
however. i know to whom
these boxers belong (i am
exasperated at the thought
of wearing boxers, a sport
that seems entirely too
risky by half, especially
on days such as these).
i found a shirt near the
back of the closet which
seemed perfect for the
occasion until i attempted
to dig myself into it. this
required quite the excava
tion. i was fortunately too
tied into knots to make my
way toward either pair of
scissors. i’ve a tiny apart
ment filled with five pairs
of scissors. i did at last
manage to break free
from the shirt i found
at the back of my
closet. at times think
ing the question always
seems to be this: is it
time for me to dispense
of the majority of my
wardrobe or do i hold
out hope that in some
future there is a me
that has become the
template of fitness,
or at least can fit into
a few of the things that
a smaller but perhaps
scarcely healthier version
of me could slip in and out
of such long-past fashionable
outer wear (in hopes that
fashion’s boomerang effect
has gone into play such
that i might once again
look presentable enough
to garner an intermittent
double-take or three)?

mmmdccclxxxix

the final climax

     Please grab hold of a meaning & pull it to your face.
                                                          —Chen Chen

leaving the hospital, i find myself
hot for crime. i’m barreling for the
scene of it, of any kind, just take me
to the nearest one (aren’t they every
where?), like a heat-seeking missile.
i play this scenario in my head,
imagining i’m slim pickens’
character, major “king”
kong, riding that
nuclear bomb
like it was a
rodeo horse,
or a bucking
bronco, in dr.
strangelove.
when one’s
fix is the end
of the world, one
doesn’t make films
like dr. strangelove.
what’s my fix, then?
is passion the crime?
is the crime sexual?
what heat do i seek
like a thief? what
are the questions
that come to mind
directly after one’s
life flashes before
one’s eyes? as
the high-speed
reel spins from
past to present
and then to a
future that is
clipped abruptly,
what then boils
within, rising
like steam so
that the end
credits sweat?
“it is not just
any trouble
being sought,”
he thought as
in sunk the
knife before
it was twisted.
such a twist
makes for a
finale. was
it grand?
nobody
asks.

mmmdccclxxxviii

getting a second opinion

are you a doctor? i get it.
so i ask him the question
that’s been bugging me
for nearly 36 hours. oh,
a diagnosis, he says, is
not everything. but at
least it is something.
i think i’m pretty bony,
and then i look at this
so-called doctor. i used
to know the names of a
lot of human bones. not
just their street names,
but their names. there
was a character in the
high school whodunnit
whose name was una.
i think she later broke
her ulna. tibia, femur,
clavicle, shin, mandible,
saccrum, coccyx, jaw,
hammer, anvil, stirrup.

mmmdccclxxxvii

ask me again tomorrow

what a difference a day makes.
you spend months feeling bleak
about one rather obscure subject.
sure, you try to meet it head on,
this possible obstacle, this threat,
but then there’s bureaucracy. and
what is bureaucracy but time you
do not have, time you may not
have, thanks in particular to
the one obstacle that i’m now
suggesting you ask me about
again tomorrow. as if it were
yesterday. somehow, you get
through the bureaucracy in such
a way that you get to the important
meeting, be it with a doctor, with the
executive board or the boss, be it with
your mother or your teacher or the college
admission council, the president, the opposing
faction’s leader, the subversive agent and you
rendezvous, everything comes to a head. what
had up until now been simply theory, if not utter
paranoia—whatever the case nothing was based
in facts because this is an obstacle that requires
collaboration or consultation in order to get the
minimum facts and develop a plan. so, this
meeting, one in a series you might be able to
count on your hands that you’ll have in this
lifetime, it is set into the calendar, it is awaited,
every day more anxiously than the next, you
move your lips and write your lists in mock
presentation of this, the problem about which
you’ve called for help, every day you do this,
realizing you cannot perfect anything because
the entire reason for the meeting is you do not
have the capacity to handle this particular problem
by yourself, that by yourself, this problem would be
insurmountable and with no help at all would lead
to your ultimate demise by death or irretrievable
misfortune or indefinite cancellation. your meeting
occurs. you go through the big movement required
to get through it and, with the help of a collaborateur,
you’ve now come up with a fairly fail-proof plan to get
over or around this impediment. to survive. will this
plan work? all signs would point in that direction. but
i cannot be entirely sure. no plan is perfect. but you’ve
done the best that can be done about it. and so you
hit the mark on every goalpost, and get through it.
if you do. so, sure, it could be that the most
difficult part is over. until the next time you
bump into one of these doozies that require
pulling out all of the stops, that require
additional humans, experts in necessary
fields, people who know the odds, know
how to work with idiots like yourself in
order to offer the best chance at moving
on to the next bit problem. so once that
meeting is over, the rest is the easy part,
right? i do not know the answer to that
question. perhaps i might know if you
were to ask me again tomorrow.

mmmdccclxxxvi

today no epic

except the call
received half-
asleep at about
what would be
work time should
there have been
any work. groggy,
but expecting a
thing or two or
three, all stuff i
had been avoid
ing the day be
fore, i answered,
“hello” ... “let me
cut to the chase...
cancer.” and there
it was. is. and as
swiftly, there were
plans. “come in to
morrow for labwork.”
“can you have the
surgery on wednes
day morning?” and
i’m not really think
ing. except every
thing is bleak. i
saw it coming.
nothing really
registers except
the plan. i’m to be
where and when? i
am to be there and
then. and even now,
without even a day
having passed, the
one thing i keep
thinking as i coast
through each line:
will this news, this
aberrancy, infect
each line on each
page, befoul each
and every poem
to come? i am
not yet ready to
act against it. if
it does, then i
think, let it be.

mmmdccclxxxv

what happen if

yes we speak
sometimes
disturbingly

we never
really know
what’s in it

for us or if
tomorrow
wake up

still dark
fire alarm
files us out

our tiny
rooms
our big

gigantic
hearts
or sleep

so deep
our dreams
take down

inglorious
lives or
life alive

we might
not wonder
any further

mmmdccclxxxiv

Geek Limousine

“Can a spa
come to me,
Limo Guy,
Limo Guy?”

“What’s a
spa?” asks
the Guy
in the

driver’s
seat of
the Limo
in which

I can’t
under
stand
why

I am 
sitting.
“Okay,
okay,”

I say,
“I will
play
your

game.
Please,
I am
yours,”

I say
staring
out at
the un

familiar
stretch
of wet
street

and
side
walk.
“Take

me
there,
then,” I
give in.

mmmdccclxxxiii

“How to Identify Trauma in Your Nervous System”

is just the title of a YouTube clip

I whiz past this morning.  I say “whiz” 

because I don’t stop to watch it, but

am instead just scrolling through the

trough of video clips—a set made

just for me (woohee!)—as if zipping

through rush hour traffic on my way

to work.  Probably, also, as in “Gee

whiz,” an expression which some of

you might remember nostalgically

(fewer and fewer of you, though).

I haven’t actually driven myself

through rush hour traffic in many

years.  Over a decade, I’d say.

And as for literally on my way

to work, it’s probably been more

like thirty years.  Yeah.  These

are just facts.  The likely (almost

certain, I quickly assess, having

just now thought about it, taking

a short second to self-analyze)

reason I’m scrolling through the

videos is for inspiration.  So that

is, at a minimum, almost a fact.

Although, come to think of it, is

it possible to have an “almost”

fact?  So now I second guess

myself and this set of so-called

facts until I have gotten quite

disoriented and off-track; have,

in fact, wasted about an hour

now down this rabbit hole.  I’ll

work my way back out of it, in

all likelihood, eventually, open

up my list of things that must

be done, stare into the screen

at the stuff at the top of the list,

all bolded and probably italicized,

that is stacked just under a header

that says “must do today” (in larger

font, also bolded, probably in all

caps and followed by two or three

exclamation points) until the

pixels swivel and swirl around

and the words in each line item

become fuzzy and illegible.  That’s

when I decide it might be a good

time for a nap.  And so I slowly work

my way from a sitting-in-bed-with-

my-laptop-in-front-of-me pose to a

lying-horizontal-with-laptop-beside-

me pose, getting drowsier and

drowsier until I . . . .