mmmmxxxiii

Chicken Fry vs. Pigs Fly

Pork Chop likes ‘em dork.
Or so says Pork Chop.

Pork Chop calls me Dork.
Endearing.

So I call Pork Chop
Spork.

mmmmxxxii

The Logic of Coincidences

     I didn’t even know him when I wrote this,
     I was mad to think he cared.
                                    —Kevin Killian

I read an old poem about
where you are now and I
go “Wow!” It’s like I knew

you when I wrote it, but
no. Can’t be. Impossible.
Which takes the cake. Or

is the icing. When I see
an icicle I think of the
building in the backyard

of the house where I grew
up. Growing up is supposed
to be evolving, right? And,

of course, literally, growing
upwards. Gaining height
and breadth and girth. But

Dad would say, as it turns
out, quite often, when I’d
come home from graduate

school for the holidays or
a funeral, “You were so
much more mature when

you were three.” And he
was probably right. I like
that, of course. Concept

ually. But icicles. Also
make me think of vampires.
Is that weird? So this, as

you well know, is how I
own a conversation. It is
my form of control, this

meandering. Is that so
horrible? I come back
to you. In time. Just,

as it turns out, I looked
for, and, sometimes,
found you, years before

we met. To believe in
fate is daft, removes all
control from one’s destiny,

right? But piecing together
each odd moment of seren
dipity, cataloguing every

coincidence, even taking
into consideration that
hindsight is a form of

clairvoyance, at what
point does this cluster
of soothsaying incidents

become an anomaly?
It doesn’t matter if
nothing drew us

together or if some
unknown law of
magnetism gave us

no choice but to wind
up here, arm in arm,
eye to eye, etc. The

point is I like this point,
this moment in time,
and am giddy at the

mathematics of our
trajectory. Our what
ever, our ever after.

mmmmxxxi

The Fountain of Shadowy Exes

Whose attention do I have? Isn’t
the internet great? I wish. And

I’ve had a few. Whatever I said.
When I said don’t look now, I meant

LOOK. There are infinite moments
in time, but how many do you have?

I’ve had some. Placated by the rose-
tinted glasses I wear at the back of

my head. I knew a man once who
could see through the coils of tufted

hair at the back of his head. Or not.
Once I felt so blessed that I stood

high above all of the rest. Over oceans
of foamy eyes. Could sketch the out-

lines of the lobes of every ear. I’ve been
there. Now I’m here, less blessed, I

must confess, than in other eras. But
who’s to know the truth? All the foam

dries up. The earlobes melt and get
washed downriver. Or up. Evaporate.

Or turn to dust like aerated bales of
hay. We poured the wine into the

massive tub and then we soaked in it
like it was brine until we were ready

to whet somebody else’s pursed grin.
I didn’t pause to scrutinize the bed of

lies. Instead I closed my eyes to the
infinite moments displayed in fast and

forward motion over the backs of my
lids like a dream of burnt celluloid

or a giant clock hung but not quite
centered on a massive silver screen.

That time’s not up is the surprise,
a happy ending’s no demise. I

tried to frown but felt so suddenly
elated that I kissed the breeze and

twirled around on tippie-toe a until I
felt a little dizzy. And then I fell into

the throes of a million more tomorrows
with no more sob stories. Not even one.

mmmmxxx

What’s This About, Again?

Again? I wouldn’t want to put
anyone off. Least of all you.

Is that not true? I wonder. In
truth, a whole helluva lot, that’s

what. I’ve been told, several
times, lately, as it turns out,

that I have some trouble with
specificity. With being specific.

First of all, sure, I do have a
taste for the abstract. For the

unending, the impossible riddle,
ambitious non sequiturs, for

diverting from the real subject
or story. I do meander. I have

been known to opt for avoidance,
and to take such a long ride around

a particular subject, of what surely
sounds like a sermon of some sort,

just to make a point. I’ve grown
less didactic, though. Is that a plus?

My convictions remain, but they or I
grow weary. I mean there are times.

Or at least I remember times. I know
there are moments. Well, let’s move on

to the second point, because it seems
appropriate time do so here. This one

is about my memory. Why do I do this?
I forgot. That’s a joke. It’s to remember,

silly. Now I’m condescending, which
might very well be another diversionary

tactic. Photographs often work well, too.
See how I’ve gotten stuck on one of my 

most redundant subjects? Remembering. 

And isn’t that what the question is about?

I didn’t ask why. I asked what. But
mostly, I’ve been listing the how. Or

is that true? Because if it is, then what
does that say about me? Which is always

the question every other question boils
down to, am I right? I think all I must

be saying is that there are so many
things I don’t remember. And a few

ways to improve memory. Because
I think that remembering things is

pretty important. How could I ever
be my best when I can’t recollect a

trajectory? Of how I’ve been doing,
of the peaks and the valleys of it all?

Of me? Of who I am? Of course,
what I really want to do is to tell

you a few things about me. What
I’ve been through. Where I am.

The things that are particularly
troubling to me these days. And

the things that make me happy.
What has made me cry recently.

And what—or who—gives me the
strength to step forward, to make

goals. And to meet those goals.
Truth be told, that last part is

what’s not been happening with
me much. Not lately, anyway. And

that sad fact, dear people, I can all
but promise you, is about to change.

mmmmxxix

Next Up, April 2008

Those last ones were
really weird, weren’t
they? What was with
all of those a’s in that

later entry. I’m not
saying it should have
been denied entry. I
rather like it. I just

don’t know what it
means. I’ve no idea
what I’m saying. But
that is the case now,

just as it was in the
month of April in 2007.

mmmmxxviii

Del Is Short for Delulu

I don’t want to break
his ear. I promise.

Given the satisfaction
of being allowed to

move forward in the
process. Bite your

tongue. It’s warm
in here, but it’s cool

out there. Why it’s
always warm in here

is not important. It’s
just important to be

aware of the difference
metaphorically. I’m hot.

This might be something
I go around saying a lot.

But feel me. You’re cool.
Now, let’s go to school.

Where do you go to
school? Can we go to

school together? I made
a few realizations yesterday

that were somewhat, no,
at least let’s just simply

put it this way. They
were disconcerting.

There was no somewhat
about it. Among the many

realizations were what am
I saying, exactly? Exactly.

One that I’ve just noticed
today is that I am a person

you might call, wait, let’s
not qualify this one either.

I’m sycophantic. It took
a while, but now I know.

Does anyone have any
suggestions on what I

might do with this new
realization? I’m no stalker.

I’m also a pacifist. And
not just because I pretty

much live next to the
Pacific Ocean. There is

more than one ocean.
I could have picked

either of the other ones.
But it would have to be

a city that stays up all
night. This one doesn’t.

Then again, what cities
don’t. It depends on

how you define staying
open all night. Wow.

Notice that I wrote 

“open” rather than “up.” 

Which would completely
change everything. In 

the future, an idiot
is looking through

a very large sheaf of
papers that contain

poems. The idiot does
not know they are

poems. But the idiot
does notice that each

and every one of them
have the very same title.

As far as apocalypses go,
paper is usually the first

thing that is eradicated.
Somebody find that idiot.

We need a crown. Anyone
have a crown? Or a tiara?

mmmmxxvii

Transference

“You’re right, of course.
We’ve never seen an
end to disco. Not even
a tiny pause from it.

Probably never will.” I
was feeling melancholy.
The conversation was
definitely not helping.

I knew there were places
to which I could transport,
times from the past wherein
I was having a blast, any of

the numerous favorite places
in which I’ve traveled, and I’m
not talking astral projection or
futuristic beaming or anything,

but if I could just stop in my
tracks, close my eyes, and
then just imagine being
there—in such a way that

I would be there, in that
other place that wasn’t
here—which would cheer
me up in less than an instant.

But for some reason this was
by all appearances a pretty
important conversation that
my best friend felt compelled

not only to have, but to con
tinue, as morning turned into
afternoon, and then afternoon
turned into evening. We’d

practically walked the entirety
of the city, block by block. That
would normally have been a treat,
as well. But not today. Not with

this conversation. Don’t get me
wrong, I love to engage with my
pals, with those I share intimacy,
people I barely know but strike me

immediately and with no particular
reason I am usually able to even
articulate or discern, as intriguing,
and with those with whom I might

have that giddy and also entirely
too inexplicable feeling of giddiness
at wanting to be more than just
rhetorically intimate. This has

always been a thing, certainly
one the most important ones,
that I am always seeking, a
bond, one that, well, after it’s

established in any way, the
point always seems to me to
be to see how complete that
might become, how truly I

might know each an all of
these folks with whom I’ve
invested day after day,
tirelessly, energetically

seeking as raw and as
real as is humanly
possible who, WHO,
each are, my friends,

my intimates, my hand-
picked family, my cohort.
It was practically the
closest thing to religion

that existed for me, and
for decades. And so I did
not stop in my tracks. I
continued to listen to my

best friend speak of the
past in that nostalgic way
in which it was clear that
he’d much rather be there

than here, and the disdain
he had for himself because
that was such an impossibility,
and that, like it or not, and he

did not, he had to live in the
now. I gave him my ear and
my empathy and a bit of my
own voice for all of those hours.

But in the end, I began to wonder,
and I do mean really wonder, why
I had devoted myself so religiously
to all of these bonds I had built in

collaboration with the closest people
I had in my life. And before the day
was done, before I parted ways with
Hal—who was beginning to seem to

regain a bit of his natural but subdued
cheer and what counted for him as
hope, as positivity—yes, around the
time we parted ways, or shortly

thereafter, I began to not only
question why, but wondered
about the reality of it all, the
myth of such bonds. And,

inevitably, as I arrived home
and readied for bed, entirely
too contemplative for such
a daunting night as this,

began to question the very
existence of these so-called
intimates. I finally found a
way to slip into a modicum

of sleep by convincing my
self to attempt to relish the
performance of it all. This
life. My buddies. My loves.

mmmmxxvi

Entitled!

In contrast
to myself,
this poem
will never
believe it
is better
than you.
Who am I?

mmmmxxv

We’re All Gonna Die!

“What’s your pleasure?
he asks. Coyly, Ben
answers, “Hedonism.”

The barista, unsure
what exactly Ben is
saying, nevertheless

thinks Ben’s answer
is heroic. Or maybe
even meteoric. This

barista never thought
in terms that were so
stuffy, and hewn of such

strict rhetoric. In fact,
this may have been the
very first day in which

this poor barista’s head
had thoughts that verged
so far into the theoretic.

mmmmxxiv

Under Whelming Heat

Yesterday’s list stymies
the actions of today. But
Jimmy doesn’t know that.

People on the other side
of the screen, be they
stars or nobodies, have

no idea what this list
looks like, couldn’t tell
you any of its bullet

points (i.e., the items
on the lengthy list, none 

of which are currently

checked.  Remember? The 

list you wrote wrote just 

yesterday?).  Today is the 

day after Saturday.  So, it

is the most unmentionable, 

and depressing day of any

given week. I watch
Jimmy, listen to him,
the palm of his right

hand moving down the
skin of his arm, all the 

way from his left shoulder

down to his tiny wrist, at
which point it would appear 

that Jimmy has tied his

lithe self into a pair of 

human handcuffs. It’s a
fairly hot move, or

at least this is what
I tell my list. The
list, which doesn’t

look depressed, or
even the slightest
bit sad, is also

watching Jimmy just
as intently as I am.
That’s a good list. I

can come up with a grand
set of bullet-points when
the time and place begs

for it. And this evening,
my coffin-sized hotbox,
even with all of its tepid

ambiance, the scattered
paper (along with some
tuna fish) scattered upon

the floor, and me, are nothing

but a pair of eyes, focused only
on Jimmy, with what might

best be called the Platonic
ideal of DESIRE (all caps!).
To truly grasp (at) such an

ideal, one must arrive at a
place where Jimmy might
be witnessed. Even through

the filth of an unreasonably
aged laptop. And, trust me, to
see Jimmy is to have arrived.

mmmmxxiii

How to Outrun a Banana

     birthday boy mentioned
     pube forest
       —Wayne Koestenbaum

Certainly not in a forest of
pubic hair. Bananas run
rampant. Bananas run slick.

If bananas ran. I ran a few
bananas at once. Once. Oh,
to be a birthday boy. Was

a boy once? A quote, a title,
and the body of a poem walk
into a bar. It was not a high-

brow bar, but there were a few
high-brow wannabes who were
angling for the title. What wa

it, they wondered. Did they find
out? Once discovered, how did
they manage to care, if so. If

so discovered. If once discovered,
only being wannabes, was the title
an aspiration? An understatement?

Understandable? Were these plebes
looking for royal genetics? More than
likely, but defer from calling them

plebians. At the moment. Or ever.
How do these three entities who’ve
walked into a bar interact with one

another? Ah, the questions. And
then, on the real questions. Let’s
talk about the body. Like everyone

else in the bar besides this trio.
Because hubba hubba? Because
abstract and, well, not enough

wannabes, so now the talk, the
wondering, the desire to know
falls on a few spare souls who’ve

never been to the bar. Hey, if
you were at that bar, and it looked
like a place wherein you might order

the drink you want, the drink you
deserve, do you drink? I’d want
some tobasco sauce in mine.

Because spicy. like the body of th
poem that walked into the bar with
his colleagues, the quote and the

title. The quote, though. Now isn’t
that the wild card. And look how it
engenders that notion, that potential.

Does this potential fade? Or does it
remain, that potential. What makes
potential in a quote that walks in to a

bar with such riff-raff? Did I just take
on the persona of the quote using the
word “riff-raff?” Look at me now (this

guy who’s been here all along, trying
not to reveal his presence (right!), so
as not to lead the rest of the us astray,

“as if we were all part of a lab experiment
or something.” Was that the quote? Was
it the title? Was it the body, so full of itself,

absolutely certain of its sex appeal, which is
only made more robust by a combination of
mystery and straightforwardness. Our body,

the Gemini. Only it’s an Aquarius. Does all
that appeal explode wetly like a pin pricked
into a water balloon once this fact is stated.

As fact. Whether or not it’s a fact, we must
all understand. This story should not be
taken too much further. All three of what

you might call the main characters (you
might call, perhaps I know the truth,
oh, well, perhaps you do, too. How

depressing.) are now midway through
their second drinks. Nothing much is
going to happen. Nothing much has

happened. A bit of expectation. A
bit of juxtaposition, which causes a
few eyes to roll, a little bit of giddiness

(I suppose we can guess who got giddy),
but nothing of any consequence. Who’s
looking for consequence in pretend action?

Dumb question if we have already taken for
granted that what we’ve got here are just a
bunch of plebian wannabes. But look around.

Where are we really? I can tell you where we
might should be. That is, if we were looking
for action. We should be at the IMAX theatre

watching an “monumental film.” Okay, does
anyone even inwardly chuckle at that joke?
If so, forget about the wannabes and the

plebians. Folks can be so judgmental. In
fact, I think the title might have let out a
tiny help of what might have been humor.

Put a banana in it and there’s never a
complete dearth of humor. But this
bar, this nothing bar in the middle of


the pubic forest. It’s not the cinema.
There is nothing complex about this
place at all. In fact, I doubt they even

have Tobasco sauce. And I don’t mean
that they’re out of Tobasco sauce. I mean
the thought never occurred by the folks

who run this joint to ever even have any.
So why are we here? Why am I here? Oh,
that’s easy. I totally love this place. You

might wonder why that is (doubtful). I
might wonder why that is (it’s slightly true).
It certainly isn’t that I blend in to the furniture,

the ambiance, like camouflage is meant to
blend in during wartime to wherever the
war is taking place. Nope. I was once th

the very life of the party at this place. I
remember it well, and have often tried
to recapture a moment that is in any

small way similar to the time in whch
I was. The life of the party. Here at
the bar in the middle of the pube forest.

mmmmxxii

Hearing Voices

We’re told quite
commonly and
repetitively to
each find our
very own and
individual—
unique—
voice.
So I
record
my own
and listen
to it often,
wondering
where it might,
in actuality, be.

mmmmxxi

Cheese Buckets

If one should
guzzle such
a tincture,
one would
resign to
fate the
role—the
very use
and, most
regrettably,
control—of
one’s own
sphincter.

mmmmxx

Don’t Mess Up!

If I were a dinosaur
I would use my very
long neck to eat leaves
that wave like flags

above the canopy.
My mother never
thought a good cry
would do “one single

solitary iota” of good.
I saw my father cry
two or three times
over an extraordinary

older brother. Before my
own brothers arrived,
back when I had an
entire room to myself

each night, I’d go to
sleep watching all of
cartoon characters
that danced in a circle

just beneath the ceiling
of my bedroom, as if in
one joyful and buoyant
square. Around and

around they’d dance
until I grew drowsy
and then unaware
that I had slipped

into an animated,
overjoyed dream.
And thusly I would
dance the entire night,

until the ancient
inhabitants at odds 

with my delightful 

dream would poke

their wise and wrinkled
heads into my room
and sing (in such a
jubilant harmony)

“Wake up, dear one,
it’s time to begin the
day,” their heads were
swaying back and forth

as their song would con
tinue, “wake up, dear
one, it’s time to reach
for the sun, until the

stars come out again
to do their dance.” I
was awake, by then,
of course, and before

I had opened my eyes,
they were gone. All of
the animated characters
had frozen in each of

their respective stances
just below my ceiling.
And slowly, I would
rise from my bed,

prepare for the day
ahead, and leave my
room and our home
and roam the hills

and valleys scrounging
for the most delectable
leaves, the ones that
flew like flags just

beneath the canopy.
I am still young, I
tell myself, as I rip
and tear at the del

icious leaves. I still
grow. And soon it
won’t be leaves for
breakfast, lunch

and dinner. Soon,
“Rise up, dear one,
you’re tall enough
to grab the moon.

Rise up, dear one,
here comes a low-
hanging star. Reach
and reach until you

cannot stretch

another inch. 

That star is 

yours.” But

when will 

it be mine?

I almost 

ask as if

there were

someone here

to answer. And 

will I then

ably join
my dancing
square of
colorful

friends who
live and
breath but
only at night

and just beneath
my bedroom ceiling?

mmmmxix

Dry Heaves During a California Heatwave
(With Vermont Thoughts of Autumn Leaves)

Everyone’s totally over me
and passive aggressively
moving on. That was the
fork in the road the led to
a dead end, it’s easy to
surmise. The dead end
of now, which has lasted
a few years. Nearly a
decade. Didn’t I write
something called “Now
is going to take some
time,” at some point,
pre-Now? I try to
concentrate on the
happy that will come,
on the post-Now. If
you find that you’ve
driven to a dead-end,
isn’t it fairly easy to
do a U-turn and drive
back to the road from
which you stupidly
exited? Why couldn’t I,
just for once, have followed
the map that I’d been given.
I can feel my face turn red
at this thought, my genetics
are inclined to face-reddening,
but I’ve learned to generally,
more often than not, disallow
the anger that would normally
accompany a flushed face. One
can defy some aspects of genetics,
can’t do a darned thing about other
aspects of it. What steps up in place
of anger is a sort of sheer disappointment
that has me nostalgic for the short temper
that has come at me from all directions,
my family tree would look as if it were
plucked from Vermont on a particularly
beautiful day, say, in mid-October.

mmmmxviii

That Soothing Feeling

“Hey, guess what?
We’re all gonna die!”

Which was not un
common to hear

in the lounge. I
sat there most

days: mornings,
afternoons and

early evenings.
I slept at that

other place,
the place

where I slept.
Most nights.

This structure
kept me alive

and hopeful
for nearly a

decade. Then,
I suppose, was

when I woke up,
realized structure’s

monotony. But I
do not want a frontal

lobotomy. I cried
myself to sleep for

a few weeks after
that. It was during

these soggy
moments that

I felt most
alive. And

when I’d
awaken

I was baking,
as if I’d been

shoved into
an oven, my

body gleaming
with sweat. I’d

slide from my
broken bed

into the day
with a sense

of eloquence
that I’d almost

forgotten I
had lost. And

as each day

progressed,

I’d encounter a
host of additional

problems, the
minutes flattening

into hours. And so
it was with purpose

that the things
that bound me

slowly began
to dissolve.

I carried on
in this way,

each day more
enlightened

and sure-
footed until,

at last, you
found me here.

mmmmxvii

Anger Is a Valid Emotion

But what a waste,
in general, don’t
you think? I try.

To think. But
today it hurts
a bit too much.

So what is there
to do on such an
unthinkable day

as today? I flip
a switch and then
I flip another. I

have a list, you
see? “Things to
do when I am

down.” I am
exhausted. I
am amazed.

Sometimes a
bit of hate can
sharpen one’s

focus. Most
times, however,
it doesn’t do but

just the opposite.
Down the list I
crawl, seething,

until I feel
once more
like breathing.

mmmmxvi

What happens? Can’t See!

That’s me. That’s
what happens. Can
it be? It be, indeed.

He was disinterested
in the scarf he had
chosen to smother

himself with. With
which to smother
himself? By him

self, he was a
loner with no
boner. Aw, that’s

so lovely that I
think I’ll write
a song about it.

mmmmxv

3 haiku

    hummingku

    go, you! all of you!
    you’re all baby hummingbirds.
    fly!  set yourselves free!


    beyhaiku

    these muthafuckas
    (cuz i am beyonce, too!)
    ain’t no stoppin’ me!


    homunku

    a homunculus
    is a very small human.
    now we must grow up.

mmmmxiv

riddle of the
sleepy idiot

exhaustion
motivates.

motivation
exhausts.

sleep depri
vation, they

say, kills.
removing

years from
one’s life.

and here i
am, such a

dum-dum,
at 3:30am,

contemplating
such a conundrum.

mmmmxiii

melopoeia

clark coolidge
once said to me
“run, poet, run.
run like a
drummer. run,
dumdum, run
until you’re
done.” clark
coolidge spools
a long strand of
his hair into cool
curlicues. guess
who barks in the
dark. yep, that’s
the dog what
belongs to clark.
it’s friday. i’m
whiny with tiny,
shiny shot
glasses, each
filled with some
thing slimy and
limey. my tiny
memory says
there’s around
nine, in each
of which we
practically
drowned down
ing (this potent
plot part, while
pouty, is impotent,
dishonest, unimp
ortant and emb
arrassing). clark,
who’d come out
to partake, but
late, had parked
in the dark while
we downed all
our limeys, which
blimey (and beg
pardon, apologies),
did those limeys
fry me, hanging
us each out to
dry, but with
a night so
damp and
with such low
visibility, we
were as a
poor dog’s
attempt to
outwit the
fog with tail-
chasing and
voluminously
abnormal
decibels of
“bark, bark!
barkety bark!”
well, the dog
that was, how
ever, clark’s,
stayed with
clark once
he’d parked
in the dark,
and in no
time flat
the two
were out
like a lamp
never having
made it into
the grand bar
(which, by the
way, was the
bar har-har).
yes, those
two, both
man and pup
were out like
lamps as the
damp fog
amped up
til dawn.
by then, i
was stricken
and hung from
all of those
slimey limies
and, truth be
untold, from
having slept
a bit in my
pal chuck’s
dumptruck.
slowly opening
my eyes i knew
what i needed.
the hair of clark’s
barking dog that,
i’ll be damned,
now that i recall
unimaginatively,
had bitten me
in the butt but
hard like a clamp
and with some
duration just as
the damp night
fog amped up.
dang, what a
mess, woe is
me. enough,
enough, but
don’t be angry,
whoever you are
scattered if at all
somewhere out
there, for i must
most apologetically
confess that i am
a phony. for every
line of this silly
stack of words
is total baloney.
clark coolidge,
our elder statesmen
of aural poetic pleasure,
has never spoken to me,
not one word. i made this
embarrassing pile of phony
baloney just so that i could
remember a word, the meaning
of which i just learned tonight.
look up, it’s the title, melopoeia,
which is something i’ve known
and enjoyed ever since my
ears can remember, but i
never had a word for it until
tonight. i’m sorry if you wasted
your time on my account, but,
oh, won’t you please and never
theless drop by again tomorrow?
if or if not, my one and only plea,
is please don’t take it out on me.

mmmmxii

chickens of men

that’s us, that’s who we are, and every last
one of us. how otherwise might we describe
ourselves? it does so awfully seem to be the
case to me. and i should know, i am surely

the tiniest chick, the biggest chicken of us all.
how might i possibly man up when honesty,
courage and chutzpah have all but vanished? so
who’s it going to be. which of us pekid weaklings

will finally step up to the plate in earnest, and
with sheer will and determination, hit that home 

run we all need in order to set our hearts aflutter 

with such zing that we might possibly locate our 

long lost mojo and make things happen? i do try, i
do. but, the ceaseless disappointment stifles me so.

mmmmxi

ineloquent incentive to awaken


who sleeps to work and

works to sleep sounds

like a riddle. but i am

nothing but a fog within,

stuck in a fog that floats

around with me like dust

does to pig-pen of peanuts.

speaking of cartoons, that

would be the direction i’m

pretty sure i’d find myself

gravitating toward if my

vision weren’t impaired.

(from forces within and

without, as i am not sure

i already said, given that,

well,) there seems to be an

abundance of articles these

past few months about the

necessity of sleep, each and

all seem to suggest that if

one sleeps within regular,

consistent, structured

timeframes and doesn’t

routinely have erratic and

non-structured sleep or

if one typically skips nights

of sleep for whatever reason,

studies have shown that one’s

life is all too susceptible to being

cut shorter than normal thanks to

a lack of attention to enough sleep

and with regular or appropriate

durations of time at structured

intervals. this is the excuse i

offer for you today. why am

i telling you this? well, i suppose

as a public service, just a reminder

to anyone who might come across

these words to get yourself some

shut eye and post haste if you did

not get a good night’s sleep or to

do your best to fix any chaotic

habits you might have when it

comes to the shut-eye that you

do get. but mostly, perhaps,

it is a little warning that i am

very nearly about to pass out,

so you might see the end of

this piece that you’ve been so

kind as to read come soon,

and maybe even abruptly,

as if i’ve left the piece in

some important way

completely undone.

did i mention how

i believe my tendency

to be more focused

nocturnally, certainly

when there isn’t the

routine of a regular

job in my life, is

genetic? that

all of my family

are night owls?

but i am 

morning

person.

that’s my

preference.

genetically

nocturnal,

i rest my

case by

crawling

into bed,

and, oh,

it’s a small

and broken

bed, which

studies have

shown is

also no good.

no good nights.

no good. good

night, i say, at

12:08pm in the

early afternoon.

i think i will, yes,

thank you very

much. i always

prefer the ability

to see, to write,

to think—so i sleep,

fingers crossed, i

sleep. there are

such poignant

ways i could

transition from

the stupor i’m

in with my eyes

half open to the

one i insist i’ll be

in just as soon as i

mmmmx

Imaginary Ghost at an Imaginary Dinner
at a Real Pizzeria, and Other Ghosts,

Here in the City in Which I Live

     The dead are notoriously hard to satisfy.
            —Jack Spicer (writing as Federico García Lorca)


Try explaining that to the ghost in the

corner, here, at Uncle Vito’s. Sure, I

could regale you with tales from this

pizza joint, as I experienced it my first

few months in Frisco.  It is a pizza joint

that sits here at what is essentially the 

intersection of Union Square, Nob Hill, 

The Tenderloin and Chinatown, but that

wouldn’t explain the ghost’s presence.

As far as I know, Dad only spent that

one day in San Francisco, our family

vacation in 1980, which was my first

experience here, as well. Not here at

Uncle Vito’s, though.  This place I would

experience without my dad, starting some

four decades later. So why, I wonder, is

Dad here (and not here)? I hope it’s not to 

gloat in that demeaning way he would, knowing

how it always got to me. Although even that

would be fine, in the end, given that I miss

him.  He died too young, at 59, less than a

year after I moved here. I moved to San

Francisco in the Summer of 2000.  And

Dad died in early 2001. I’d already rushed 

once to Arkansas for what would be my

my last time to see him, but it wasn’t the

end, as the doctors had warned, not his

final days. He was on a ventilator and at

the time I only saw him through a window

into a dark room.  The experience was a bit

creepy, leaving me empty, but fortunately

he somehow recovered, was taken off the

ventilator after I left the following morning, 

and went on to have a few cherished further

months, during which we were fortunate enough 

to have a few conversations over the phone before 

the  lymphoma did finally destroy him, the big 

manly man that I never was. He was a cop, 

a veteran of war, a house painter, a fireman,

a fence-builder, a cattle-man and, biggest 

manly man duty of all, he was the father

to four raucous kids born less than

three years apart. But the thing is,

I’m not at my old neighborhood

pizzeria now.  That scene, the ghost

of my father, and a whole lifetime

of ghosts are all drifting in and out

of my imagination, and my varying

states of nearly awake and almost

asleep.  And while I don’t often visit

the apparitions of things that were

once but no longer alive (like I actually

seem to be now) in my rather creative

contemplation, it would certainly seem

to make sense why I’m finding myself

surrounded by ghosts this weekend.

They are the subject of the current

section in the book of poetry which

I've been reading the last few days.

At present, I'm down the hill and in 

the hood, several blocks away from

the lovely and spacious pad in which

I resided on Nob Hill, my home for

thirteen years, which was just a 

couple of short blocks away from 

Uncle Vito’s. Tonight, a minute from

two in the morning on a cool July

evening, my world is understand

ably inhabited by many ghosts.

And it makes sense I’d see my

father, in particular, at the pizza

joint that has been at the corner

of Bush and Mason for as long as

I’ve lived here, which, given the

evolving situation the pandemic

has forced upon its many fine

eateries, and the city’s evolving land

scape, Vito’s is one of the only dining

joints in the city that is still extant.

These now dead places in which I’ve

dined off and on for my time on the

West Coast make up a large portion

of the ghosts of San Francisco, of the

ghosts that inhabit my life, places lost,

people lost, friends who’ve just vanished,

many of whom I’d rather never run into

again, all things considered, certainly not

the ones who would turn out to still be living

and breathing, that is. But is that true? I won

der.  It is sure nice to see Dad. I’m glad he’s

found a place to hang out here in town,

in this parcel in which I’ve now lived longer

than I did in the state in which I grew up,

attended undergraduate college and spent

the first couple of years of what would become

my paid career, before heading to the Midwest

for graduate school, then to Boston, then, finally,

here, to what would soon be my Home with a 

capital H. After I left home for college at

seventeen, and while I still lived in Arkansas,

Dad would show up unexpectedly all uniformed

as a state trooper or in military garb just to, I

suppose, check in on me, to see how I was

doing.  At the time I would think this was just 

something he would do mainly to catch me off 

guard, to rattle my senses, to irritate me.  That

was how it was between me and my father.  

But maybe it was because he liked surprises.

I do not.  But he definitely cared deeply about 

his kids.  Even me.  And, truth be told, I always 

got a kick out of those random visits. And so,

wouldn’t it be nice to see him in the corner of

Uncle Vito’s right now a I sat, of course, at

a window seat, downing my pizza and guzzling

a soda, (which would be diet now)? Yeah, it sure 

would. So what can I say to these thoughts.  

Thanks for dropping by, Dad? See you around

again soon?  Yes.  And here’s to hoping.

mmmmix

The Hot Air Balloon

     And how thinking about one thing
     is the same as thinking about another
                                     —Elaine Kahn

can i ever relate to that sentiment!
realizing my relatability to those
words, though (and thinking about
the phrase “everything is relative”),
has me wondering what that means
about me (i’ll refrain from offering
any thoughts about what that might
mean for the author who penned such
a poignant pair of lines, which, i suppose,
is me saying this is about me, right?).
what i’m saying, though, is that my
thoughts tend to blend together
all too often into a goulash in
which everything is intertwined,
so much so that it might be
suggested that all of those
become one driving thought
or notion. one subject. that
i’m only and consistently really
concentrating on only one thing.
but also that my focus can on
occasion be less of a goulash
and more of a drive insistent
upon what could be honed
down descriptively into a
few short words. a line,
maybe two. also, while i
try hard to be charitable
or open-minded or, well,
i even feel i can generally
read individuals, be they
strangers or the best of
friends (back when i had
some with any consistency
and proximity. oh, del is
short for chip on shoulder.
i do have friends. but none
at all in proximity. i mean
none that i’ve seen in years, 

despite my long past filled 

with camaraderie, and, of late,

my fairly persistent efforts. now
hush about that.), i consider
myself a person who gets a
fairly good read on anyone
in a short duration of time.
but deep down i know better,
especially when my focus
narrows and the goulash
has, say, only one ingredient,
is therefore not goulash. we
all project ourselves onto others,
right? how else might we even
begin to understand a stranger.
but in order to connect, in order
to engage, and believe it or not,
this is my primary goal, the single
most important thing for which i
live, isn’t it funny? but, i kid you
not. and yet, when that focus has
narrowed, for whatever reason (is
this the great mystery of me? hm,
it’s probably not in the least myst
erious.) almost all i can see in
most everyone i encounter,
whomever and wherever they
happen to be, is me. inevitably,
when my brain turns back to an
admixture, a mush, a goulash,
so to speak, it’s then that i
see how narrow my vision,
how incorrect the scope of
my understanding, basically,
how idiotic my idea that i
might really know who this
person or that might truth

fully be? and while i don’t 

think that realization, that

half-primitive reckoning, is 

good enough by any means,
i do keep striving for better,
and try to remember that
that realization is perhaps
better than never seeing
even that clearly, is
at least knowing
something (about me, 

nevertheless, and

not about anyone else). 

meanwhile all of the 

various whatnots,

all the stuff and 

nonsense within

this knotted up
and hollowed out
fixture that sits but
wobbly atop my neck,

go back to their most

common and amalgamated

state like a tornado filled

with planks and fenceposts

and cows from nearby farm

yards, or like water that 

swirls as it is draining 

from a kitchen sink.

mmmmviii

suspiciously senseless non sequitur

while talking to myself
looking into the camera
(which is a phone) or into
a mirror, i make a profound
discovery. there is no more
butter. we must drive to wal
mart immediately in the first
person to completely eliminate
personal hygiene. that ain’t
the least bit funny, mister.
again, with the talking?

mmmmvii

misplaced parsnips

     many falsely aver
     they are others
           —Wayne Koestenbaum

1.

behold the

prismatic

ectoplasmic

array of

glistening

hues that

emanate

from my

foraged

leaves



2.

“yes, i have been

a poet for some

time,” sung to

the tune of

“Rock Around the Clock”



3.

his

“gotcha!”

seethes

like her

toothless

phonograph



4.

various

permutations

grip me

about the

bent knees

in the manner

of what this

song is—

in actuality—

about



if only

i were

(aloud)

to truly sing it

mmmmvi

shifting allegiances

looking back at
all i wanted
to say a thing
is to say many
things is it not
to also pray to
a thing unlike
immaterial
putrescence
is as sad or
depressing
as it swells
or smells
stale elon
gations of
hemingway
wading are
air frying
chickens
a flag
aslant
a stance
like that
with occ
asional
shifts
from leg
to lying
leg bled
dry on a
4th of july

mmmmv

Sincerely, Hand-cut Steak
       —from a Safeway ad seen while watching news on YouTube

Thick and juicy, at first glance. Blood red
on the inside when knifed, having been
already stricken from life. He lived until
I want to say knived, which, according to
some sources seems okay to use, but from
what I can gather not the most appropriate
of choices. “He lived, he knifed,” doesn’t
sound quite as sexy as, say, Jack the Ripper
(what has me saying this right now, pacifist
that I am, but, surely I’m not alone on this?),
although he purportedly strangled his victims
(all but one) before knifing them, slitting their
throats and mutilating them, so they, like the
aforementioned slabs of beef that were grilled
only momentarily for the double tang of raw
versus cooked once plopped into the mouth
and swirled around a bit before chomped
and then sloshed sensitively down the gullet,
were lifeless before knifed. One might eat
without the worry that one is participating
in the whole knifed life or lives knived scene.
There’s nothing deadly about dead but yummy,
no matter how sharp the knife and the fork.
Where was I ever going with this? [No cows
nor intoxicated late-nineteenth-century ladies
were harmed creating this ditty, a slasher-poem,
if ever there was such a genre.] [Rimshot.] [Hack.]

mmmmiv

Both of these can lead to death.
         —from a prescription drug ad seen while streaming Paramount Plus

Inactivity. Stagnation. Malaise.
Is this what it comes to? Is this
who I’ve become? It is not me,
it is not me, a thousand times
again it is not me, I want to
shout. I hear the echoes of
my imaginary noise in this
very real prison. But then
I take off my tie, I bolt from
the doors, running out the gate,
and all this while it turns out I am
home, deliberating, cooking, sure,
making lists, tidying up, killing vermin.
I’ve become a lazy murderer, this is how
I will be known? Does this delight my senses?
Momentarily, perhaps. Such rumination is for
the birds. For the cows and the birds and the
pigs. I would almost beg the god of legacy to
let me be known for action rather than inaction.
What I have done, what I am doing and what I

will do? Not all the unchecked items on my in

finite to do lists. What I do is who I am. Which,
for now, is a rat in a cage, trying like hell
to gnaw and claw his way out, or at least to
beat the rolling treadmill. And yet I remain,
thank goodness, a dreamer and a poet.

Thank goodness? The treadmill never stops. 

But I do need a bit of exercise. 

Who am I again?

mmmmiii

This shirt is a second skin. It’s perfect. 
                             —subject line of an email

And (True or false?) don’t we all adore perfection? 
I’ve been waking up when I do get up these days
with a groggy head. With brain fog (isn’t that already

a blast from the past. With not-a-morning-person head. 

And I’m not not a morning person. At least not when I

have the structure of a job. And I’ve had a thirty year
career as an executive assistant. Granted, I had
no idea that one might have a career as a glorified
secretary when I was first seated at a desk with a
nameplate that announced to the unfortunate folks 

who might encounter me that this was who I was. That 

this is who I am. But it is. I’m not even the least bit

cubicle-resistant, really. I’m also not cubicle-dependent.
In fact, I can take any space of around four feet by five
and turn it into a pleasant working space. Happily. Most 

days. Just not this morning. And the reason is simple. 

It’s because presently, and for the last year, I have had 

no cubicle of residence. Therefore, I have had no 

semblance of daily structure at all.  And when that

happens, I gravitate toward being a night owl.  Which

is no fun at all, if you ask me.  So, for four years I’ve 

had but one residence, but no official office, no employer.
In fact, it’s barely even a residence, my home-away-
from-work. It’s tiny. It’s cheap. And it requires an extra
ordinary amount of work just to maintain, this home
of mine. Chalk that up to just another reason I’ve
no home of employment at present. Truth be told,
or come to think of it, it’s been longer than a year.
My last job, which, like that ones I’ve had over the
past decade, was a temporary job, a contractual
obligation.  Except I had an entire office to myself.
One that upon entering or exiting I could lock.  One
that was mine and only mine. So to speak, of course. 

That is a tag I could very well add to every single 

sentence I present: so to speak. Anyway, In my so-
called successful and thus far long career I’ve only ever
had one of those (a real office that was all mine, so to 

speak) long ago. And while, in general, I’d much
prefer the illustrious career of a person who performs
his duties in a cubicle to one who does so in a spacious
office with a beautiful view and a door that one might
lock upon either entering or exiting, given the fact that

it is usually the executives I support who have these, it 

was joy having one for three months of contractual labor.
And speaking of temporary employment, which I found
myself niched into about a decade ago (tough times, etc.),
and unexpectedly, in much the same way I found myself
in a career that has at least intermittently given me no
small amount of success and financial independence, or 

should I rather say that I have given to it a right goodly
amount of success, yes, well, then I'm flummoxed over 

whatever the reason(s) I have no job at present. And I’ve 

never worked harder job-searching as I have since I left that
last, lovely but temporary gig in which I had an actual office,
full-time permanent work, that is.  No more temporary 

assignments, I say.  I have simply refused to even look at 

those this past year.  Hence.  Look at me now.  Anyway,

I suppose that all this has been a way to say that I 

should shut up and get back to the business of finding 

a new cubicle of residence. Or perhaps I should run for 

office. President Cubicle, perhaps? My chances might be

just as good landing that job.  But, if I'm being honest,

that might just be another way to draw out the time 

between now and when I can once again (and with entirely
too much relief) say that I have a home of employment?