mmmmxciii

Destination Endzone

clappy carbos had called us into
a coma. my comatose classless
colleagues compounded that con
founding condition, by causing a

curious cacophony, a chorus of
curt, wheezed-out creaks and
clinks, the chorale of our conked-
out crew. cleaving to a conscious

state i contemplated karmic excus
es and other credible causes for us
crapped-out kiddos. “of course!”
i cried, conking my cranium, which

led to a bit of inconsequential com
motion among my crumpled and
clumped-up companions. con
torted into a quivering but quiet

cackle, i came to the correct con
clusion: clearly our schoolkid
days were kaput. we’d each crept
begrudgingly beyond coming of age

cadets and into crinkled old codgers.
disconsolate, i crawled back under the
covers to coalesce with my cadre of
coots on the colder edge of the cosmos.

mmmmxcii

Living the Con

simple smiles of idiotic
gathering dust in the
foyer. yay. my schtick
today is my back hurts
and the man’s thumb
smushes me into the
ground, into a pancake
on the deteriorating floor

of my tiny, overly hot,
coffin-sized apartment.
huge goal: escape. this
goddamned hotbox. hook
up with this lovely human
being. big plans. big plans.
which is there’s only one
plan, one plan, nothing
but on goal in the whole
entire world. or else i die.
or else i hermit out the rest
of my life, which likely ends
near now, a few steps away,
no mojo, the motivation for
this one goal dissipating,
drained, like the gunk that
disappears down the sink,
and not just any old sink,
but the toilet that is the
only working toilet on
your (my) wing of this
i-can’t-in-good-conscious-
complain-about apartment
building, which is, nope,
not going to complain
about it. because goals.
because, i mean, and i’m
sorry to keep having to
remind myself, goal.
singular. one. singular
frustration. and every
little step i take toward
this goal. and let me
tell you, or don’t you
know about baby steps.
focus on my frustration,
folks. you imaginary
friends and acquaint
ances. see me to the
door. the door to my
next cubicle, oh my
god, if you even could,
if anyone could, let me
just say, i’m fine, every
body, i’ll be okay. but
only if i live. or maybe
i’ll be more okay if i die
tragically never having
reached what i would
have imagined most
of my life to be such
a simple goal. good
grief. allow me to con
you with my confidence.
let me wine you without
whinnying about winning.
i’ll pose for my post about
positivity, which i posit’ll
be in the shape of the
statue, or maybe a tiny
little copper or clay
sculpture of my
posterity. if i
live another
day. if only
it were that
one thing i
could work
toward, day
in and day
out. fuck
bureaucracy
and all of the
rest of life that
has to be lived.
dangerously.
menacingly.
i gotcha
goal. i’ll
getcha.
and when
i do, there
they’ll be,
like gigantic
bowling pins,
all of the urgent
things that must
be tackled, that
will get struck,
unless between
now and then i’m
stricken with some
thing deadly, like
death or debilitating
disease. put a lid on
it, dimwit. this is no del
usion, this is real, dude,
as for everything but
that one thing, i’m
on strike. i’ve got
one life, and only
one thing that
must be done.
after that, all
the pins will
fall in my
joyful new
universe,
down my
alley, the
way things
were supposed
to be, the world i
almost knew, it’ll
be, it’ll be, it’ll be.

mmmmxci

Missile Ready Ignition

I don’t know. How do I feel today,
as I ready for my “post cancer
surgery MRI,” which will take place
in another couple of hours? I’ve

really started to feel the “it’s been
six months since I had surgery to re
move cancer” and begin to mull that
over in my head for, I suppose the first

time. I had a little blip of “I have it” back
when I had it. There was that one day of
frightening. But everything else was such
smooth sailing, and afterwards I received

that “cancer free” “clean bill of health.”
So I doubt I’ll think much more about it

(...for now...).

mmmmxc

Because I Am Alive

Wow, I should get out
and enjoy the world.
What has been my
problem. A reversal
from extrovert to in
trovert? At home
testing does not
support that poss
ibility. But I have
been a veritable
hermit now for
approaching five
years. Nearly ten
if I count my last
years at home and
my two years with
out a home, even
though I was gen
erally more sur
rounded by people
during those years
than I have been
during the past five
since I have had my
new small apartment.
I keep to myself, except
during interviews and the
small stints I have had of
unemployment. I speak
with therapists, psycholo
gists, recruiters, and var
ious doctors and, on occ
asion, speak to the front
desk personnel here at
my SRO, or to the case
manager assigned to me
at this location. So my
obvious need to often
surround myself with
warm bodies, as well as
my rejuvenating penchant
for long discussions with
friends – a luxury I do not
have anymore, at least not
in proximity, for reasons that
have both unnerved me and
perplexed me now for years,
a problem which has me un
able to move either backwards,
toward those with whom I was
so well acquainted, or forwards,
to acquaint myself with new ones –
has been non-existent for so long
now that I would not even know
where to or how to begin again.
I know that I must learn how,
somehow, because this is not
the way I feel is my best way.
In fact, that is often what I
mean when I have said for
several years now that this
is not living, or that I cannot
wait to get back to living. It
is the need to have the close
ness of people to me, people
for whom I care. I have main
tained a very few (three) close
friends, one being my mother,
so that’s family. Maybe there
are four. In either case, neither
are in the city in which I live, so
there is absolutely no face-to-face
conversations with people who know
me well. Whom I know well, also.
None of that. This has been the
obstacle, the reason that I have
continued to say that I am not
living. But the fact of the matter
is I am alive. And while it’s been
the most difficult uphill haul with
which I’ve ever had to climb, I
am still here. So what’s my
problem? There’s a shitload
left to do. Let’s get to moving!
I’m not sure who I’m yelling
at since I’m the only one here.
But I do know that it’s time
for me to crack that whip.
Get on with it. Or give up.
Those are the only choices.

mmmmlxxxix

I Am Living Now

I am thinking this
as if to remind my
self. Am I? Yes,

resoundingly, yes!
I often make sug
gestions, to myself

and to others, that
what I have been
doing this past few

years is not living.
Is not living at all.
And yet I am wrong.

Aren’t I? I’m incorrect.
That is most assuredly
the reality. That I

am living. How
could anyone deny
this? How could

I deny myself the
experience of living?
Only, that seems to

be what I have been
doing now for several
years. This has to stop.

mmmmlxxxviii

Ethical Issues

what was her name? the professor?
i somehow have her confused with my
high school spanish teacher, but then
it comes to me, yes, no? falls-corbett?
i’m not certain, but that is the name
that comes to me. first name peg, i
think. funny that she has bill’s last
name. bill, my editor of many years,
i had the honor and good fortune of
taking his class at mit. back when i
worked there. and then i feel the
connection. he wrote an autobio
graphy called ‘futhering my edu
cation,’ did he not? yes. so this
class i took in undergraduate
school, at hendrix college in
conway, arkansas, ‘ethical
issues’ it was called, in which
we as a class covered around
five topics throughout the tri
mester (hendrix was an eclec
tic school, with three semesters,
or ‘trimesters’ per class year, at
least back in those days; i believe
i read somewhere recently that this
is no longer the case), five topics
laden with controversy, topics that
you fell on one side of the fence or
the other, inevitably? hopefully? we
were just college students. i mean,
perhaps my classmates had much
better developed values than i did,
but, as i like to say, i was a late
bloomer, and i doubt i was firmly
on either side of the fence on any
of the issues. i can only recall two
of them, which were abortion and
the death penalty. i do know we
each had to write an essay which
clearly stated our opinion, based
on any research we did on the
subject, a coherent argument
either for or against. it turns
out that i did have a pretty
solid opinion about abortion
rights, just a basic but solid
opinion, but on the death pen
alty, i did not. but using logic,
a method of deduction that i’d
inevitably dub ‘my religion,’ i
came to the conclusion that no
one person or people should have
the power to determine whether any
person, incarcerated or not, should be 

put to death. that i remember. i’m not
sure why i am writing about this class
this morning, and of course i’ve no idea
why it came to me shortly after i awoke,
the memory of sitting in that class during
what i think was my sophomore year of
undergraduate school in arkansas. but
thinking about that class now, i believe
it to be a turning point for me. a sign
ificant transformation occurred within
me that made room for what would be
come my malleable but ever-solidifying
values. those most important issues we
face as humans, or that i face, anyway.
i was a good student before that class,
as in my grades from mid-elementary
school through graduation and on into
my first year of college hovered around
near perfect. but as for my education,
i’d say that it began with that class.
it’s been a long and winding road
ever since, but one thing has re
mained true: with an over-arching
curiosity, i have been furthering my
education ever since then, ever since
tackling those primary and relevant
issues in which there are no hard and
fast correct answers in that class entitled
‘ethical issues,’ with professor falls-corbett.
this feels like a relevant subject to have
woken up thinking about in my refreshing
ly cool apartment this morning. i wonder
what the rest of the day will bring.

mmmmlxxxvii (#2)

Laughter

My humor is
no hyena. It’s
an architectural
rendering taped
to the entrance
of the new build
ing that came of
it. Or it’s at least
a 1,000 piece puzzle
done with family and/or
friends over a holiday.
It might be bawdy, full
of farts and snot and
other various human
and animal detritus. In
human form this might
be the consequence of
eating well and/or catch
ing a cold or a virus, or
just from too much belly
laughing. These are things
that happen that at times are
found funny and other times not,
depending on your momentary

perspective.  Finding the not-so-

funny hilarious is a fetching angle,
a rather delicious mode of humor 

that you might find me attempt in
order to seek the life-
affirming sound of
audible laughter.

Laughter that is

also a gut-punch.
But, also, humor
can be found in our
most heinous earthly
tragedies: death, disease,
divorce, heartbreak, failure
and worse, however bad it gets,
if I might coax the humor that
surely exists in such subjects,
in such tragic circumstances,
that is a feat I’d gladly be
known to have done. Delight
can be eked out of anything,
but of course there are many
situations which are inherently
comical in and of themselves.
I don’t mind using those as,
say, backdrops during a
rather serious section of
a written piece that I’m
building. Which reminds
me that those moments
in life which we find so
incredibly serious–sob

ering, even–by which I

don’t mean tragic, but just
those things which traditionally
are not to be taken lightly – well –
I do love to find ways to milk a
bit of laughter from such moments
as these, so that the severity of
a tough situation might be
indelibly tied to the light-
hearted and humorous
for as long as the memories
of those who witnessed or took
part in such a juxtaposition had
any cognition at all. Self-deprecation
is perhaps one of my most used types
of humor. Some call this humility, but

it can grab attention, moving a spotlight 

ever closer.  I use it regularly enough, even

during my worst moments during which doing
so will have me pause for at least a bit of an
internal chuckle at the fine mess in which I’ve 

found myself. Moments in which someone (even 

if that someone is me) embarrasses themselves 

in front of a rather large group of people can be 

hilarious, but should never be done in a casual 

manner or to further embarrass. Would that we

could all glean humor from our various embarrass

ments. Slapstick, physical, Chaplinesque humor is 

a big treat for me, and to be part of the physicality 

of such humor is one of the greatest treats imaginable. 

To go further with that notion just a bit, being a one-

time actor for quite the duration, doing or saying 

or being something on stage that elicits audible 

laughter has given me something that nothing 

else has. Diarrhea.  Just joking.  It is both 

immediate, like the quick pump of 

endorphins through veins, and lasting,

because it enhances the little bit of 

memory that I have, highlighting it 

in such a way that it remains with me 

at all times, and can be conjured, and is, 

particularly during those moments when 

it’s quite difficult to find any humor.

Be that as it may, it is during 

these times more than any
other that I seek out
any bit, from any angle,
best as can be seen from me,
while I am in the midst of it, these
in dour times, which are the widest avenues

over which I can be hit with a laugh or two
more and more regularity. These past few
years, when I have found myself virtually down
on my hands and knees looking for that speck
of humor, or that hidden gem of a guffaw, a
laugh that is so thorough that it is like a purge,
as if, say, a massage or a laxative or a purgative
might do – getting rid of whatever might be
toxic within me, allowing me to reconsider
the moment with a bit more focus, which
inevitably allows me to escape it just
that much faster. All because of
that thing most of us never deign
to take too seriously: things that
are funny, anything that can 

have us laugh. This is just

about the most serious
subject I can imagine.

mmmmlxxxvii

Straight Talk

I can’t but seem to
approach things with
a straightforward vo
cabulary. Things that
are actually happening
or have happened. My
bleak outlook, which is
exaggerated or exacer
bated perhaps by the
writing down or the
talking out of my
bleak outlook.
Now I remember
what I’ve done in
the past to counter
this approach. Set
parameters. Very
specifically only
think about, talk
about, write about
happy things or out
comes which would
elevate, increase
satisfaction, de
crease obstacles,
goals that are
needed in order
to move that one
very important step
forward; that without
which it would be im
possible to do the
most important
thing I have to
do on any to do
list. Then I begin
to restrict myself
from doing any
thing at all that
except aim for
that particular
goal. That one
and only thing
which will get me
to the only thing
I want, have
wanted for such
a seemingly in
terminable time
now. So out the
window go all of
the happy thoughts,
in comes the bleak
horizons now matter
which direction I look
(most often in this tiny
place which, once I might,
could possibly, probably
cannot reach that one
goal that unlocks the
doors to the only
possible future
I want but
can’t have,
won’t have,
never will).
This it at the
heart of my
dilemma. The
harder I work
toward that one
goal, the further I
get from it. No matter
what advice I take, no
matter how I think I’m
improving the process

so that I can achieve it,
the more I do for this one
seemingly simple thing, the
one thing I need in order to
get anywhere that I want to be,
that I must be, alive, and soon,
in order to simply begin to work
at the things that are the only
goals, leading to that primary
goal – the more I do in order
to open that one door which
must be open in order for
me to get anywhere near
any of these places, or
the one primary place,
at which I must arrive
in order to live – is it
that serious? is it
really life or death? –
absolutely – the more
I try to accomplish this
one thing, attempting to
inevitably hold in my pos
ession the key to the only
possibly future I envision,
that thing without which
I will but stagnate and
die, the more I try, the
further I get from it.
The trick has thus
far been to not
give up hope,
to keep trying,
at this seemingly
simple goal. But
in the dead-end
reality that I seem
to have found myself,
how and why not give in
to the impossibility of it all?
I want to feel so much, I want
to say, I really do, that I will not
give up, that I will get there, but
I am a logical person and I have
never strayed far from the possible,
over-achiever that I have always been.
But where once I always succeeded?
Now I just wonder, I ask, I scour
the earth for a clue: how do I
do it now? I wonder what
resignation might be like.
But that is something I
cannot find an inkling
of within me now.
Nor ever. And
so I persist.

mmmmlxxxvi

Polytonality

I find out that harmonic
convergence seems first
and foremost to point to
a big first meditation on
peace in August of 1997,
that there is a musical
equivalent, but the stress
seems to be on this massive
world peace event involving
meditation with Mayan and
astrological influence. I like
the Mayan connection and
find some examples of this
event or others like it in Peru.
I’m unsurprisingly thinking
of a way to classify something
that transpires between two
people. One in San Francisco
and one in Peru, human beings
who have known each other
quite intimately, yet wholly
virtually, for nearly four years.
These people are very special
to each other, yet have not
managed to meet in person
yet thanks to Covid at first,
and now a binding lack of
funds. It needs to happen
soon. It will. This initial
meeting in person. But
one thing that the virtual
nature of their long-term
relationship, one in which
they are constantly comm
unicating, or daily so, often
speaking to each other via
videoconference once or
twice or three times a day,
almost never does a day
go by that they do not
see each other, one thing
from the time together
they have spent is clear –
there is love, there is a
great deal of intimacy,
and there is a heightened
sense of many things that
occur via their engagement
with each other that would
likely not normally, say, if
they lived in the same city,
would be able to be with
each other in material and
physical ways that both, or
at least one of the two think
of us the norm, they would
not have the easy capacity to
notice. These are the things
that build a more resounding
love, an anticipatory love, a
stronger desire, a perhaps
more elongated magnetism
of libidos, ready to be con
joined in as many elaborate
and normal and experimental
fashions as can be imagined.
These are not all realistic, but
are potentially each and all
quite possible. The mind
is open to such variety,
such physical and quiet
moments together, the
likes of which, at least in
one of their lives, which has
been blessed with such a
replete variety of love, has
lived with many loves, for
various periods of time,
and has never had a
love for this extended
amount of time without
one physical face to face
meeting, no one-on-one
encounters besides through
individual computer screens,
barrages of text messages,
videos that range from those
that would be considered
cardinal, lascivious, to the
completely innocuous. The
assessment has always been
that this is an obstacle-ridden
relationship, one that neither
had ever considered in the past,
one had even poked fun at such,
when friends or acquaintances
were in them, thinking them
more one-sided, more inter
mittent, perhaps more of a
side gig or an extramarital
or extra-committal thing.
Now karma has found this
fellow, who is now in what
might be the most serious
relationship of his life, given
the fact that they have met
each obstacle with very little
anguish, always with this most
magnetic desire to finally and
resoundingly meet. I imagine
one musical chord that is at
such odds with another, one
representing one of these men,
say the one that lives in the
upper hemisphere of this place
called earth, overlapped with
a totally and seemingly incom
patible second chord, repres
entative of the gentleman
living in the southern hemi
sphere – one on top of the
other, with perhaps a bit of
movement in which one of
them is more front and
center flowing into sections
in which the other chord’s
melodic more pronounced,
and the resulting music is
or elicits giddiness, an earnest
love and an intense desire such
that would and will bring the
two men together, or such that
from listening to the two one
could obviously, even from
outside looking in, knowing
nothing at all about each
individual, that they will
be drawn together, that
there is literally no choice
but for this to happen, that
only the loss of life could
possibly come between this
inevitability. I am on their
side, I choose for both of
them life, and a wealth of
time in order to experience
all that can be experienced
within and by such a love,
such a connection, from
now until they do, hope
fully and soon, find them
selves in the very same
room, and especially
henceforth from that
moment. The many
adventures and the
exceedingly beautiful
life that each will lead,
both individually and
together after they do
meet, my wish for them
is that this far exceeds any
idea, any expectation in which
either has ever had regarding
the value and the joy and the
adventure that lies before them.
That this journey will bring a
contentment and a joy, many
joys, an overarching joy, and
unrivaled engagement and
connection, and that they
will never wind their lives
down from this ongoing
experience, and once
parted, will know that
their experience was
the best that any two
people might have
the pleasure of living.
That day will come
soon enough, and
when it does, no
bounds will keep
them from this.

mmmmlxxxv

Autocratic Autograph

I know someone else who
signed his name very slowly.

Very deliberately. Only his
signature was boxy – it had

curves, but it was mostly like
a bunch of bubbles or a bunch

of those soft pillows you put
on your bed after you’ve made

it of a morning, if you live fancy.
No comparison whatsoever, this

signature’s like a bunch of thin
buttes in the desert, smashed

together by bulldozer bookends,
or the viny vegetation that grows

upwards upon bluffs in country
made up entirely of blocky rocks

as far as the eye, would there be
one there, could see. Brushed out

like an EKG in blue felt tip. Not a
script upon or around which any

thing might ever have lived, save
the stegosaurus and the triceratops

who used to wrestle in the flat-
rocked valley that, under more

natural circumstances would have
contained a flowing river, the banks

of which would surely have been
dotted with the occasional body

girded with large fishpoles that
wavered over whitewater that

roiled over mini-boulders. But
this land is nothing but rock.

Those two would wrestle well
into the moonless night in such

a way that would have frightened
passersby of any kind, human,

dinosaur or otherwise, but these
two, well, they were thoroughly

giddy. They’d get together like
this once a month, at the very

least. Each lived quite a rumble
and a tumble in quite opposite

directions. Once they said their
goodbyes, a bit bruised but no

worse for the wear, positively
spirited, about as happy, in

fact, as any two dinosaurs
in proximity should ever

be, off they’d gallop in
opposite directions,

making it to their
respective homes

right before their
respective clans

had begun to
realize they

were not
even there,

leaving no time
for any suspicion.

mmmmlxxxiv

The World’s Leading Expert

That’s an especially severe
seriousness you’ve got on
display. No comment, but
he, nor anybody else, says
this. Instead his butt settles
deep within the brokenness
of that upon which he sits
and he closes his eyes and,
imagining a sort of deafening
silence, concentrates on, well,
quelling the fury of his always
overstimulated sweat glands.
Like that’s what he’s really
concentrating on. He has a
way of doing this, it is at its
worst an earnest duplicity.
The primary target of his
focus is this moment. More
specifically, how to move it
through the present and as
far into what is to come as
possible. It turns out the
possibilities are endless on
this front. Procrastination
is his forté. He has built
a career out of doing so.
He is the world’s leading
authority on the subject,
on making this goal no-
goal a reality, while
coming through at
whatever end having
kept the faith of his
colleagues, no one the
wiser, with a fresh façade,
without a soul believing he
has disturbed what has, for
all practical matters, become
the farce, the fraud, of a well-
sustained equilibrium that his
very aura seems to represent.
It’s a total sham. And here
he is, pulling himself into the
moment once again, from god
knows how far back (When did
his grift begin?  This he often
wonders.), like time traveling
through stasis. Having done
nothing beyond that. The
movement of self through
time. But to all who sur
round him, his acolytes,
so to speak (spoken by
the very voice of truth,
which renders each of
them impotent, given
that one and all are
sucked into the
pretension). The
world’s leading expert.
And the world does not
even know. The room
darkens as he glides out
the door and into the next
space, in search of another
ideal spot for his usual gig,
a performance of the very
same magic trick he’ll do – 

and that he will, that he 

does, achieving nothing 

but this endless and

irresponsible slide,

this swooping and 

gliding through time –

always with the know
ledge that he is the
best that there is
at accomplishing
nothing, and yet
nobody can ever
know. This is the
one thing that gets
him sidetracked a
bit, and this some

times shakes him to
his core and, occasion

ally, it pisses him off.

That no one will ever 

know this about him.

That no one will ever

know him at all.  But

these feelings fade,

as he does, from one

moment into the next.

mmmmlxxxiii

Grave

The gravel
in Lynn was
more like

busted up
shale. She
said she

could barely
open her
eyes anymore

and it was
clear to me
that she was

correct. I
suggested
toothpicks,

always the
clown. But
am I creepy

like the
clowns of
horror flicks,

the circus
clown-type
or more of a

rodeo clown,
gored by the
bull you so

gallantly
rode into
our town

on that
fine spring
like day?

We heard
on the radio
that by morning

our gardens
would be
frozen.

My heart
beat best
while

the rump
was on holi
day roasting.

mmmmlxxxii

As a Matter of Fact

I might be depressed.
I’d rather not go into
further details. For
one thing, I haven’t
figured it out myself,
but I’m pretty sure
it has to do with a
general impotence
that I have been
feeling about
just about
everything.
Do you have
any ideas for
potential solu
tions? I do. But
that’s just it. All
of my ideas involve
accomplishing goals
that I seem unable to
achieve. Of late. Of
more than just late.
Of perhaps a decade,
maybe more? Why
am I telling you
this, you might
ask. And I do
wonder. Hon
estly, I’m just
‘thinking aloud,’
attempting to
get it out in
order to
get over
it, perhaps.
One thing is
fairly certain,
though at pre
sent it’s hard to
hold out hope for
such, and that is
I’ll be over it in
no time, at least
given history.
The depression,
that is. Not the
general impotence.
Of that there seems
no hope whatso
ever. Oof!

mmmmlxxxi

Risqué

Dough
or dough
nut. Pi

laf or au
gratin
just to

throw
you off.
Crouton

Or soup
ςon you
tease

(please).
If it’s up
to me

it’ll be
a ham
hock

versus
a pork
chop.

But
those
buns!

With a
squeeze
of butter

and a
little
bitty

shake
of pink
sea salt.

mmmmlxxx

Unfair

Some days no
sense of humor
isn’t fair. Isn’t

going to be a
fair day. Not
fair. Mom says

life isn’t fair.
Don’t cry. Do
not cry, though.

Some things
are fair. Like
deep fried Oreo

cookies? Deep
fried butter? Oh,
you’re not fair,

at all. You’re
not even the
least bit funny.

mmmmlxxix

Old Men Take Naps

Not that I’m upset.
Doesn’t everybody?
This is another one
about me and the

spattered windshield.
Don’t look so disap
pointed. Scratch
that. You look

however you look
and, trust me,
that’s totally fine.
Love is knowing

exactly when he’ll
take a nap. Even
though he naps
so randomly.

mmmmlxxviii

What’s Going On?

Well, my boyfriend is
plotting the demise
of the system.

And all I got was this
lousy poem about my
boyfriend plotting
the demise of
the system.

But now it’s
all yours.

Paying It Forward!

mmmmlxxvii

Moving On Up

Del is short for
deeee-luxe. What

a rush, lost in space,
the hush of morning’s

air. Sure, I’ve known
times I’d call delightful.

Times aplenty. In fact,
given all that I do know,

which, sure, indisputably,
isn’t all that much, but

shut up for a moment.
I still want to bring it

up. To complain about
it. To vent. But how to

vent when one is already
in Purgatory? Enough

with this incessant
venting! I could

instead flip it and
reverse it, put a new

spin on a dead horse,
so to speak, by

approaching the sub
ject from a more

positive angle. One
that assumes (with

so much anticipation)
a future; attempts to

rid the focus of so
much of my attention

for far too long of
much of the con

sternation. Sure.
Let’s do that. Let’s

remove the need
to even complain

about such matters
by developing a goal

that will eradicate the
problem altogether,

even as the older I get
the sketchier the pro

spects for such a lofty
aspiration, that del

uxe apartment in
the sky is what?

Is nigh? I thought
for a moment you

said it was night.
Or I’m high? Am

I wrong? Or
am I right?

mmmmlxxvi

A Day in the Life of a Thumbtack

“We were just hanging out.”

               “Oh, yeah?”

“That’s it. That’s all it was.”

               [Paul paused for a moment,
               pursing his lips.]

               “You think I don’t know who
               was doing the hanging?”

“Psh! Well, at least where we hang
there aren’t any guillotines!”

mmmmlxxv

Moving
Right
Along

Pull up.
Turn left.
Don’t stop.

mmmmlxxiv

Belly Up

Well.
That
one
had
me
squir
ming.
Some
one
should
light a
candle.
Where
are we?
Where
we are
is in the
belly of a
magnificent
beast. “Oh, it’s
all in your head,”
said Fred, unaware
that he, himself, had
been stuck there, alone,
for nearly a decade now.
“Where is everybody”?
His words seem drunk
enly sluggish and slurred.
By now, he’s quite dis
turbed. Thus go his
days, his nights,
his unfortunate
plight. He
wanders
the city
all but
unnoticed,
hasn’t locked
eyes with any
but the unreal,
as if he’d even
know the difference
between himself and
the surreality into
which he’s trapped
himself, but snugly
now—this night
marish dark and
dusty world that
tilts eternally at
some sort of dusk.
He stops in his
tracks, but
for a moment,
thinks of a kid
entangled,
writhing and
working up a
sweat in an
effort to
escape
what
ever
has
imp
riso
ned
him.
The
boy,
him
self?
But if
he is or
was this
man will
never know;
this unintended
performance will
see yet another
tomorrow. But
if he doesn’t
know? Who’s
to speculate
upon such
woe? Or
even if
woe
it is.
Who
would
know?
Let
him
be.

mmmmlxxiii

“Blah, meet Meh. Meh, Blah.”

Once they were introduced
they took at each other
swimmingly. Which was
no surprise. Belzer, it
turned out, played a
most convincing Cupid.
They moved in together
within a month, or so,
this being recollected by
a few of his friends. And
so, for the rest of that
year, and for most of
the next one, anytime
Belzer would hang
out with one or
more of his pals
over coffee or
drinks or what-
ever (be it singly
or as a pair),
all they’d hear
for the duration
was Blah this
and Meh that,
depending on
which of the
two were
speaking.
They glowed
with admiration.
But was it love?
Before the year
was over, Meh
and Blah went
their separate
ways. And if
you asked
either one of
the formerly
hyper-happy
couple what
had happened?
Each would feign
a yawn and assert
the other was the
veritable epitome
of boredom.
End of story.
Is anyone
still awake?
(Ennui.)

mmmmlxxii

Eel Eagle Lee

Back in those days
we were on the
down low.

mmmmlxxi

History Is Always Changing
            (A Sonnet)

That’s the funny thing about
yesterday. I’m sure there are
other funny things. But I live
in the moment, in the now, right?

I know well how to do this. It has
mostly been good to me. But on
days and months and years like
this, it often seems appropriate to

pause and reflect upon the status
of my ways; whether or not I’m
going in the right direction (oh,
but slowly), how things look from

here, based on how they might’ve
looked from there. But there? The
past changes quicker than one can
even begin to grasp it in its currently

(the past, I mean) imagined incarnation.

mmmmlxx

Big Butt With A Nipple On It

He didn’t have any idea
how to address the sit
uation. I mean, he had
plenty of fantastical scen
arios playing around in
that head of his, to be
certain, but when it came
to moving any of these
notions toward action,
something to force the
problem in some dire
ction, even if the idea
would potentially back
fire (isn’t there always
a chance this might
happen – this thought
was primary in render
ing him ineffectual), he
wanted to believe that
this was a choice he’d
made, to simply stag
nate, to sit on the issue,
so to speak, and he’d
occasionally believe
this firmly enough that
he’d do just that, stub
bornly sit, be it at his 

desk or on a parkbench 

or at some bland cafe 

for hours at a time, think
ing himself headstrong.
But somewhere deep
within that supposedly
strong head of his, he
knew. He knew that
this act of defiance,
that his inaction,
would not only
exacerbate his
little problem
into one that
would be, in
the end, un
manageable.
It would be
come out of
control in such
a way that no
matter what
action might
even potentially
be drawn from the
deep well within him
self (it was a fantasy
of his that this well
was deep, of course),
that this tiniest of
problems would
inevitably lead to
his demise.

mmmmlxix

The Argyle Saga

My depression wore argyle,
which I thought was not very
representative of the times,
even though I was a child
of the 80’s, or as I say, a
child of the 90’s, by the
time of which I could
legally drink or go to
war, had received
an undergraduate
degree and had
attended a
Motley Crue/
Whitesnake
concert and a
Depeche Mode
concert, not to
mention others
(like, for example,
much I was hoping
to get to mention that
I got to attend a Huey
Lewis & The News concert
in Memphis, but my depression
says that we don’t have time for
that). I found that at these concerts
(as well as others) my depression would
dissipate if not disappear for the entirety
of each and every show. However, both
before concerts and directly
after them, depression would
show up again, often bigger
and badder than ever. I
never saw Nine Inch Nails
in concert, and Trent Reznor
was basically my hero. And any
of you who are acquainted with the
band or with the musical genius of its
lead singer, who, around the time of this
poem’s recollection (somewhere near the
transition of the 1980’s into the 1990’s,
that is), would probably know that
Mr. Reznor, during this time, was
essentially Goth’s anointed king. He
was also recording an album at 10050
Cielo Drive in the west-central part of
the Beverly Crest Neighborhood of Los
Angeles, where some members of the
Charles Manson family had committed
the Tate murders in 1969, when I was
two years old. Reznor had purchased
the property in 1992 and immediately
built within it a recording studio, which
he dubbed “Le Pig.” For years, Nine Inch
Nails would blare incessantly from what
ever headphones I would use at the time,
into my ears at whatever the maximum
possible decibel level. His anthems, filled
with complex riffs, punk remnants, heavy
driving beats, Reznor’s screamy voice and
ultra-depressing lyrics would uplift me any
time I was able to play them. A few years
later, an emergency room doctor would
write me a prescription for Prozac and
say that I suffer from depression (I
had taken a three or four question
“test” and it had been determined)
and that I would probably need to
take these pills for the rest of my
life. This was in Toledo, Ohio,
where anyone can get quite
depressed without the least
bit of encouragement. There
was no real connection between
my depression and listening to Nine
Inch Nails so incessantly, of this I am
almost a hundred percent certain. I had
been crying for some time, previous to
that prescription being written in a
very long hallway within a massive
apartment wherein I lived by myself
in the Old West End, which was a somewhat
newly gentrified area near downtown Toledo.
The area had apparently known much worse
days, and my renting of the most massive apartment
within which I’ve ever lived probably played very little into
this gentrification (I left without even giving notice, certainly
owing a big of back rent), but it is often the case that
individuals fall rather vehemently on one side or the
other of the whole gentrification thing. I was quite
simply depressed, that’s all. It was all thanks to
a breakup more than anything else. That was
all it really was, to be honest. I picked up
the prescription for Prozac and took it
religiously through two or three refills
and then i stopped taking them. And
I’ve not taken Prozac since. I began to
feel quite a bit better, thanks especially
to this medication, and soon, I piled
everything I owned into an Audi
Quattro and drove it to Boston,
arriving there New Year’s eve,
the night before 1997 began.
And it was here that I would
live a mostly happy exist
ence for three and a
half years. By the
time I left Boston
for San Francisco
in the summer of
2000, I had thrown
away all of my by
then outdated
and really quite
holy argyle socks,
of which I had
previously worn
quite an extensive
collection. These
are mere facts.

mmmmlxviii

Sweet Dreams to All, Near
or Far, Might I but Kindly,
Humbly Ask a Simple
Question Regarding
My Existence?

I’ve been told
on quite a regular
basis what a lousy
communicator I am.
This was of course back
when I had a lot of people
who spent enough time with
me and on such a regular basis
that I could only presume that they
would know and with authority relay
this characteristic to me about myself.
And now that I have so many questions
about this quality, there is nobody around
who’d even know. And who would even want
to know? Oh. My skills, I am aware, as this
by which I mean, or this they mean, I’m quite a con
tender in the Financial District, or else I was led to be
lieve this, and knew it, and this rounded out life to make
it a life with me in it, and an affordable one at that. But
it appears by all measure that I couldn’t talk myself back
into such an environment if my life depended on it. What
more could my life possibly depend upon more than this
one seemingly (for me) cinch of a task I’ve done most
historically and with such regularity. But nowadays
and for far too long now I talk and then I talk and
then I talk and then I talk, staring into what I’ve
no reason to believe are real humans that sit
just on the other side of my laptop’s wind
shield, a human (or two or three) who
stare at me congenially and ask me
the silliest questions, carrying on
as if we’re the greatest of friends, or
at least will be. Sometimes they have
me wait a while as they beckon yet
more humans, and so I wait more
days and then, when they arrive
they ask the very same
questions, and
seem elated
to make my
acquaintance,
giving me the distinct
impression that, yes, we’ll
soon know each other so well,
and that we’re only just beginning
to get to know each other but just you
wait. Just you wait. And then I don’t hear
from them again, except, or at least this is
usually the case, in the form of a very impersonal
letter. In which they glumly say they’ve found a
better friend, they have decided that we were
not meant to know each other any more than
in such a through-the-windshield sort of
impermanent way. Okay. And so this
is what I wake up to most days,
and I wave hello and begin to
act as eloquently as I can
muster, and recollect as
specifically as I can
muster, in order
to answer their
odd and yet
so genial
questions,
while in between
these absurd con
versations with a
lousy windshield always
between me and the other
human or the two or more
humans, the ones with whom
I talk and laugh and act as if we
I take a few moments to check my mail
and, one after the other, these form letters
arrive from the folks with whom I have had these
conversations in the days and weeks previous, each
and all with the same essential language and the same
essential message: We found a new and better friend, good
bye. What is there to do between those and the strange
conversations? I could cry, I could give up and
probably soon die. But instead I find myself rev
ving myself back up for more of the same, day in,
day out, month in, month out. Do you perhaps
get the picture or is anyone even there? I
know so well how I’d be if they had picked
me. I’m so very good at all of that.
But these confounded con
versations through the
pixelated screen?
I’ve been told so often
that I have anxiety, and this
most often by professionals
who would certainly know
about such things. And
I’ve been told,
as well, by
folks with whom
I was close enough
that they would
surely know
that I am
just one
lousy
unscripted
talker, one truly
horrible communicator.
And so I go to bed at night,
most every night these days – these
long depressing weeks that extend
themselves into horrible months –
wondering if that is the
reason why none of
these people want
to bring me in,
why none of
them wants
to be my
friend.

mmmmlxvii

A Life of Crime

“It’s a Good Thing You Don’t Mean That!”
I say this wholeheartedly convinced. As
if that’s a given. Whatever, I’m being
proactive. Things go downill from there.

Because what if you did? What if he did?
It never fails, when the anxiety raises its
overgrown head, the doubt arrives shortly
thereafter. Del is short for Delulu. And for

delusional, deleterious, delete. Delinquent
(but, alas, no juvenile). Speaking of teen
agers, I can’t wait to get paid, no matter
how little, because I have really got to get

some deodorant. Which reminds me of the
last time I did. I was shopping at Target, had
quite a pile in the cart, after I’d emptied the
items onto the conveyor belt and wheeled it

around to collect my groceries – wouldn’t you

know it? – a seven dollar stick of deodorant
remained stuck in the bottom corner of my cart.
Well, as I was wheeling away, I surreptitiously

picked it up and snuck it into one of the bags
full of paid for items as I was wheeling it over
to the shopping cart repository (I call it the
Shopping Cart Lounge). Bingo, just like that,

I smelled okay for a month or two for free!
Now I’m a shoplifter. If you would have told
me this would be the case when I was an
adolescent I would have gotten angry and

vehemently and sincerely berated you for
saying such a cockamamie thing. Anyhow,
now that I’ve had a little bit of time to really
mull it over, I’m pretty sure he meant it. This

is so horrific that my anxiety becomes acid
reflux. Delineate, delegate, Delta Dawn, Delroy
Lindo, [almost weeping now] Adore Delano (for that
matter, Bianca Del Rio), Del Taco, Delmore Schwartz...

mmmmlxvi

Looking Forward to It

Tomorrow,
in the world
of the almost
never, I del
iver. As in,
you know,
do it. Only
it’s tonight
and I’m no
groundhog.
I don’t think
so. Nope, I
don’t, in this
sink or swim
universe (all
four thousand
sixty-six of
them).
These few
thoughts
gird the
landscape
of our pur
view, until
noon. Or
thereab
outs.
I sin
cerely.
I, a simp,
simply
cannot
wait to
meet
you.
This
was
said
to the
flying butt
resses that
held up the
clouds in our
purview. They
were legion, the
buttresses, our
thoughts, the
clouds, tonight,
tomorrow and
around about
noon.

mmmmlxv

Urk

Let’s just say
I work. I urk
legitimately.

The irky imp
that really
temps

is too realist
ic. Let’s just
say I’m out

of ink for the
timestamp.
We have

those (with
nachos). “But
who gives a

lipstick?” asks
the surrealistic
impish jerk.

“Not I,” said
the secret
spy, red

undantly.
Let’s just
say I

hurt the
gob-search
website.

Going for
ward, I
prim

rose to be
a less

loose

less verb

ose user
loser.