mmmmcxxv

(my laptop is dead so this poem is for now handwritten. worse than that, by me. apologies!)

mmmmcxxiv

(my laptop is dead so this poem is for now handwritten. worse than that, by me. apologies!)

mmmmcxxiii

Urgent

I’m supposed to be doing.
I should be. The plan was.
Turn on the news. The
weather. Pick outfit. Walk
dog. Take out trash. Empty
the litter box. Water plants.
Make reservation. Get a job.
Here’s what needs to happen.
To do list. To do list says. I’ve
got to go do. Urgently. ASAP.
This should be done immediately.
Remember to. Priority items.
All caps. ALL CAPS. The laundry.
The dishes. The floor. The bills.
Put a stamp on it. Errands. Call
Mom. I need to call. Grocery
list. Social life. The reading on
Sunday night. Scratch it off.
Combine the three lists into
one. Put in calendar. Check
calendar. Respond to. Fix
it. Do it. Put a pin in it.
Research. Look up how
to spell. Definition of.
Finish. Read the rest.
Print the article. Order
in. Focus. Focus on.
Edit. Send. Apologize.
Deadline. Call him at
two this afternoon.
Recurring items.
Don’t forget to.
Brainstorm. Be
social. Socialize.
Request further
instructions.
Details. Info.
Birthday card.
Get creative.
Check blood
sugar. Make
appointment.
Apply. Send
thank you.
Retract. Check
Blood pressure.
Write a check.
Take meds. Call
the doctor. Follow
up. Wind it down.
Clear the hurdle.
Obliterate that
obstacle. Get
a life.

mmmmcxxi

Uptick?

Swallow your
pride? Sure.
But if so, up
chuck your
gullibility.
Dispose of
depression,
anxiety and,
while you’re
at it (and why
not?), disease
and pestilence.
The era of the
voice is not even
a toehold down to
earth, but when the
voice reigns whose
swollen toes touch
the earth save
those digging
human-sized
holes into it.

mmmmcxx

Symphonie Insensée

It doesn’t matter
how much talent
you have. Nor
how long you’ve
worked at it. Nor
an apprenticeship
or the amount of
legwork you’ve
chalked up doing
whatever it is that
you do. That you
want to do. Well,
whether or not you
want to be doing it
or anything else.
Soberly, I rose
to the occasion,
tipped my hat,
twisted an about-
face, all but tip
toed off the stage
and practically fell
out the door and
into the traffic.
Before that big
truck hit the bus
iness that was me,
did I hear – how
might I even recol
lect? – the sweet
sound of the city
as it whooped its
obligatory cresc
endo into that
swollen and
slightly off-
key yet mes
merizing chord?
Who cares. I
whipped my
drained and
deranged body
of business “out
of harm’s way,”
and skipped
toward the
bedizened
horizon and into
an inevitable
oblivion.

mmmmcxix

Punk

The stuff
I’ve yet to do . . .

mmmmcxviii

22 (back to broke)


popped into a Cutlass drove up to the Seven Eleven on a

danger somethin about a hillbilly on the skank and a

dancefloor can the music really do it to it popped

into a Cutlass drove up to the wall at the end of the

baby pinnin me to the wall yeah to the Seven

with Depeche Mode on your new duds with a

fuckin banker as the lord jesus christ hisself

let it hit ya can it hit ya doncha even hafta let it mister

and wonder why many as three people can fuck and get it

on even on even on the same waterbed yeah shake

that skinny-ass tie baby nineteen eighty


popped into a Cutlass drove up to the Seven Eleven

on a danger somethin about a missin hillbilly

hisself got the rain on the windshield and party

how can you grab hold of a dyin beat let him

bedragged up the stairs and find him down again down

again aw that smile on his face grippin over the porcelain

in a studio in Little Rock doll why doncha just

lift up the good stuff I’ll make you skinnydip

you gotta dip with me baby you gotta I gotcha

poolside gotcha poolside and the dogs don’t even count


popped into the Seven Eleven on a danger mission

got it whipped with a high five and no bankers

gonna step on into the dumpster for a smoke

shakin it like he’s believin it and then

mouse it on up the hill for a coupla

blooms see to it the pops don’t mess ya don’t

watch it go up into the clouds and on such a shiny

nighttime we got the music real and if I don’t keep

walkin keep walkin in the pourin offa the blacktop

the pool the pool’s gonna get too cold too fuckin


popped into the Seven Eleven and told the man

not to move not to move we gotta hillbilly he don’t

know who’s gonna pray and who’s gonna sing how

do you grab hold grab hold in Little Rock get to

divin down at the supermarket next to the gaybar

next to the Seven Eleven I told you so doncha

drag me up the stairway I don’t have no waterbed

you don’t know me from Christmas I found this

piece a mud in the alley down by the stairwell and

the banker done pinned me to the wall with his

dead fuckin Cutlass in the broke-ass

middle of Little Rock

mmmmcxvii

Vexed

I try to write a poem.
It is a doozy of a downer.
Is this all I can be? Perhaps
I should do something
else. Or, and this seems
more important at the
moment, maybe I
should concentrate,
and quite heavily,
on not being such
a doozy of a downer.

mmmmcxvi

The Evil Machine

It is all simplicity drained
into a medium-sized metallic
box. One that you can carry
around all day and never know

it’s even with you, until you look
down, whether you’re holding it,
have it held by a strap over your
shoulder, the box dangling at the

side of your butt, or have it rigged
to sling over both shoulders, like a
backpack. Like the one in which
you once would carry at least a

half a dozen books. You don’t
really know what it does, nor
why you’re compelled to have it
with you every second of your

existence. It wasn’t always like
this. There was a time when you
felt light as air, when you believed
in the myth of freedom. You dreamed

you could soar. All the normal stuff.
But then there was that box. Did you
make it? Was it a gift? Did you find
it somewhere, like in a dumpster, or

some executive’s office? Perhaps
washed ashore, back when the
beach of the deep drain was
the only ominous that you knew.

That you felt. And still, as you
look out over the vast ocean,
and at the setting sun, say. Do
you remember what was prom

inent? What was at the forefront?
When you could go anywhere, be
anything and, most importantly,
that you could escape any time

you wanted. You could just leave.
For a moment. For a few days. Or
to begin again, to start fresh, and
this you did on occasion. It was

rare, but it was an option. Yet look
at you now, so completely unaware,
so devastatingly out of options, with
out even the memory of those days,

of that freedom, of those choices that
were at your disposal. And that you
got to decide. Sometimes a glimpse
of the idea of choice, as if deep within,

as of the ashes of what used to be 

the coal in the furnace of your skull 

is stirred, just enough to whip up an
ember. But then. It’s gone. And

you look around as gooseflesh crawls
across your skin. Thinking maybe
someone.... But there’s no one.
Nothing. Except the box,

which you clamp tighter between
your arms, hoist its harness up
closer to your neck, or tug at
the straps across your chest,

bringing what’s behind you closer,
tighter, feeling it flush, a square
to your back, that gives you, so
clueless, the idea that you are

safe, that you are secure, that this
world is yours.  And with these thoughts,
the ember darkens, and you blindly find
your comfort, your security, your peace.

mmmmcxv

The Difference Between
Input and Output

     ...we’re here, we do stuff,
        and then we’re gone.
              —Robert Downey, Jr.

It turns out to be about death
but “not in a morose way,” he
says shortly after his dad passes.
They’d been collaborating on a
documentary together, featuring
Sr., which the film is called: Sr.

when I watch movies or teevee
shows, streamers as the ones I
see seem to be collectively, at
this particular point in time, are
called, I come away from that
experience revivified. Often I

watch them intentionally – I
somehow manage to maintain
all of the networks (as we don’t
collectively call them anymore),
the subscription fees, even as
they keep going up and up, and

the ones one wants (the ones I
decide are important to have)
seem to multiply, to be cloned
and then divided, cloned again –
just because I want to feel better.
Otherwise, despite these channels

(another thing they’re not dubbed...
oops, is that the wrong word, too,
given the subject?) making up, by
far, most of the tiny monthly bud
get that I usually manage to get,
I tend to basically forget to watch

them, tend not to pick up the con
sole, turn on what to me, because
I’m not young, seems to be a
gargantuan teevee. So when I
do, I most often do it consciously,
as a move towards feeling better,

because these days I tend too
often to be in need of that. Of
that I do not need a reminder.
I’ve always had to deal with de
pression, ever since I can rem
ember, and this particular fix

has always been a go to. Oth
ers come and go – like going
literally to the cinema or taking
a walk through the streets and
up and down the concrete and
wooden stairs of the city in

which I live and love – but
these days it’s watching a
series, whichever one of
several I happen to be in
the middle of at the moment
(and unlike in the past, I now

actually finish them!) or, on
a rare occasion, watching an
entire movie, which was a
thing I used to do with such
regularity that I’d often see
five or six a week. Now, it’s

almost never. But I saw two
today. Both of which I loved.
One, an adaptation of the first
half of a book I read several
times as a too precocious child
(Dune) and Sr. And I even

caught a couple of episodes
of a couple of the series of
which I’m currently in the
middle or near the end.
The end. Death sat
vehemently at the fore

front of both of these
movies. But do I feel
worse than when I first
tuned in to each? Re

soundingly, I feel much
better. I believe I need 

to remind myself to do

this more often. Which
sounds like a joke,
but I promise it isn’t.
The only other thing
I can think of as an

almost sure-fire remedy
to being so entangled
within a bout of these
low-down blues is writing,
what I’m doing this very
moment. In my head,

and even “out loud” with

in plenty of the lines of 

these things I build with 

words, I will invariably

make a big production
out of whether or not

anyone is out there.
Whether or not there
is an audience. I have
ego. I want to be part
of a conversation. Of
course I do. And, man,

to anyone who might be

out there, my gratitude,
really. But even if this
just goes out into vapor,
and I’m its only audience,
what would be the problem

with that? At this moment,
and thank you, people of
the television, of the movies,
of whatever they’re called at
the moment, I say that if it’s
all just by me, for me, that’s

fine with me. And at this very
moment I really do mean that.
I do. But what life I get from
the tenacious creative actions
of others. They for sure exist. 

And thanks to them, so do I.

mmmmcxiv

Jim & I Kick It

Dualities are all the rage
in here where I supposedly
belong. Do I seal my lips
with super glue or vent via

screams until my voice col
lapses? I have so much to
tell you that I don’t want to.
I have so much I want to tell

you that I dare not. This con
flict has never been a problem
for me – it’s stability. But do I
let that be my excuse? I talk

the ears off anyone who lets me.
Mostly they’re paid professionals
or interviewers. But what if some
one knew me enough to really want

to listen, to hear my story, my num
erous stories, the ones I only hint at,
if at all, but never tell completely. Am
I just too lazy? The world is so unfair

and yet I’ve been so blessed. If it were
going to be so unfair to me, oh how in
retrospect I’d rather it have done so
when I was young. But maybe that’s

some pretty cheap vanity. Deal with
it, I demand of myself. But then, how
to get perspective when I’ve no one
here who knows me well enough to

know that this wasn’t my lot, speak
ing of vanity, speaking of an over-
inflated ego. There’s no we where
I go. That’s the biggest difference

besides the atrocities that are so
much easier for me to see. I
have never been one with any
desire for empathy so deep that

it drives. Whips around these
cliff-laden California curves I
haven’t seen in nearly a decade
now. I’m not helpless. But I

am unable to pretend these
shackles did not bind me by
coincidence, were certainly
not mere accident. Blame a

system or, more appropriately,
its people. No matter, what’ll
it do for me to blame? So I
play this game, flummoxed

by this lack of inertia, this
movement that seems filmed
for me to watch as it transpires,
and in such slow motion that it

is impossible to tell whether the
gradient is an incline or a decline.
Or a recline. Idiots who look at
the downtrodden thinking, even

saying aloud, how lazy they have
to be in order to be in such a sit
uation. Bite your tongue off is
the situation. Know it before

you burn it. Maybe it’s worse to
avoid. Pretend such things, these
people, don’t exist. Do it before
you eschew it! Switch places for

a day. Or bring that thing, that
human being, to work day. What
a holiday that would be. A prison’s
primary purpose is to be built with

no means to escape. Except by
those with keys. They get to
decide. What’s the difference
between you and me? Who’s

got the key? And who’s pacing
the tiny square of concrete try
ing to remember what it must
have been like to be free?

mmmmcxiii

Astride the Vertical Vector

How much paradox in
one day? I could spell
it all out for you, but
what would it matter?

The top of my game is
the bottom of this barrel.
The rock bed upon which
dead men drown is the up

per edge of the galaxy. But 

I am home. I know my place.
Like the half-rotten meal that
you’ve eaten, it has gone down

into the depths, as low as it
can go, only to rise again.

mmmmcxii

Dress for Success

One trick of course is to always
act like you know precisely

what you’re doing, and that 

you know how to reach any goal. 

And while that kind of con
fidence is often appealing and
‘gets you places,’ with repeated
and overarching use it creates

an impression of cockiness, which
is definitely not what we’re going
for here. So you need to finish that
off with delicate moments of humility,

self-deprecation. Now that’s a mix that
builds a sexy facade of success appeal.

mmmmcxi

Aural Sensation

I hear that if you laugh
at a penguin it will laugh
with you. Years later

I tried that. Turns out
I had it on blowhard
authority. I guess

I was tuned in to the
wrong station. So, as
usual, the joke’s on me.

mmmmcx

Moral Lobotomy

The oral history of
moral authority is
not a reality play.
It’s called The Yeti
Make Spaghetti in
Their Yurts. I’ll
have a yoghurt
with that. Get it?
Oh, the door’s right
there, see it flapping
in the polar wind? But
I wouldn’t venture out
there if I were you,
what with all of the
spikes. Which I don’t
worry about too much,
given how hard it is for
one to penetrate the ice.

mmmmcix

I Have It on Moral Authority

that there’s no way this light
causes skin cancer. if you
don’t believe me just
google it. but perhaps
you might should do so
over there in the shade.

mmmmcviii

Our Most Affordable...

fill in the blank because
i’m unbankable. unless
you count, play-doh, duh!
so off we go to the shark
tank, where i’ve got a
bunch of fresh ideas.
like ponzi schemes
and cracking safes.
once i thought i
was funny. i
was brushing
my teeth. some
where between my
ears i heard a loud
comment and the
toothpaste fell from
the sink onto the rat-
infested floor. this
portion of the page
you’re currently
reading of the
book of my
life is brought
to you by crest.
the moral of the
oreo is that i’m not
funny after all. never
was. or maybe i was
but now i wasn’t. who’s
to say? a whole bunch
of empty space,
that’s boo hoo.

mmmmcvii

Monotony Lobotomy

Humdrum, here. I just
took Monotony to see
Nurse Ratchet. She
insisted on a lobotomy.

I don’t think she meant
me. I left Monotony with
her. She was quite insist
ent, though, and upon the

exchange, enormously
pleased. I’m not sure what
to do without it. There’s a
certain peace in repetition.

But the tingle in my head!
And the pep in my step!

mmmmcvi

I Don’t Want to Think About It

I’d rather not talk about it, either.
Just for today, can we say? You
don’t want to, either, and yet I
persist. Down the rabbit hole

I go. Depression is a set of
circumstances that swirl around
in the gut until it builds a sink
hole beneath my feet. I grew

up in tornado alley. Saw only
one, despite hours and hours
of books over head in school
hallways, being cramped into

storm cellars with relatives.
My father was in one. All he
had to hold on to was a flag
pole. He rose like a flag, he

said, a tale I heard dozens of
times, holding on for dear life.
And then it was gone. Sinkholes
are like quicksand, once you sink

you’re stuck until someone pulls
you out. This happens around
the time the nostrils are about
even with the top of the swamp-

damp soil, a mud that, if you even
try to move, you’ll find yourself
deeper and deeper within. People
lose lives. All the time. I don’t

want to talk about it. So far, I’ve
survived. So far, I have relaxed
into it, taking the time to, well,
breathe, relax, contemplate

nothing, sinking further into an
oblivion that always seems so
well-deserved at the time. I
get out. It seems like luck, but

perhaps it’s just what we do,
what we get ourselves into,
perhaps it’s inherent, a way
to survive by almost not

surviving. A day or so later
and I’m thrumming with
energy, excitement, moti
vation. Historically. But

there’s always the notion
that swirls around and
slightly above the gloom
and doom that it won’t

always be this way. This
is only something that I
have thought about re
cently. It’s not the best

lingering thought to have,
as you may well know. To
survive requires discipline
and responsibility. But

requires more than that.
And sometimes I have less
than I need of the more
than that which is necessary.

Of that, there’s no remedy
sometimes but to wait
things out. Nevertheless,
there’s always things to

be done. To do lists that
keep one away from the
swamp. But the swamp
is inevitable. Fortunately,

I’m thus far always res
cued. Generally by my
own devices. Sometimes
by the generous of heart.

I used to have a generous
heart. Now the ticking of
my ticker feels more like
that of a stopwatch. I’ve

no idea what duration from
which it’s counting. I’m not
counting the ticks. I’m just
counting on being here a while.

mmmmcv

Rosy Noses

Hey, so I woke up late,
having stayed awake late,
or early, almost until the
sun came back up, nothing
unusual there, only did I
get anything accomplished?
Sure, yes, I now have an
interview next week, some
time either Tuesday, Wed
nesday or Thursday. I have
recorded a couple new months
of poetry for the YouTube side-
channel of this very project –
I’m on my last month. After
I’m done with the months of
September (have read months
2005-2015, so only have 2016-
2023 to go of the final month,
then a few additional 2023
months that were not yet
completed when I went
through those particular
months at the time in
full), my floors are
clean, some laundry
(which I now do in the
sink) is clean, I have
managed to yet stay
inside, in my little
hotbox, rather than
go out and spend any
of the last money I have
this month (and next month,
since I have been able to now
work a total of ten days in
August, September and Oct
ober, and these the only days
I’ve had the luxury of doing paid
work since mid-June of last year,
my paltry government funding
which pays for the rent at my
SRO and for my telephone bill,
with hardly anything left over,
is in jeopardy of being non-
existent), so that’s good,
right? I’m concentrating
on the good stuff, accent
uating it in a perhaps hyper
bolic manner, but whatever
works to keep my mind off
the dead-end bleakness of
it all. And nothing’s bleak.
My boyfriend is amazing,
even though he’s been
in the opposite hemi
sphere for, what, 100%
of the nearly four years
since we’ve decided we
were a couple (I will
never, ever, ever,
denigrate the notion
of a long-term relationship
again as long as I live, because
that’s what I used to do – nope,
I do not believe in karma). So,
these are the diatribes or the
attempts at mild-mannered
catch-ups, or touch-bases,
I set out to do – by the time
we’re at about here, I realize
there’s no turning back, the
sarcasm (if we’re lucky), the
pessimism, the lack of hope
is so overblown despite the
attempt to really break through
and into the many amazing poss
ibilities, the infinite radial paths
upon which I could casually stroll
or even skip my way out of this
spot and into obvious progress
and happy endings. I look
down and all I see are my
bare legs crossed with a
pillow above and between
the laptop upon which
I’m pecking this ridiculous
ness and below them are
the blanket that acts as a
facade atop my badly bro
ken bed. It is cooler than
it’s been in quite a while.
There’s that interview
coming up next week
(how can mentioning
and in fact repeating
this fact not resemble
a deja vu in which we
all know the obvious
conclusion to that
familiar saga. But
no, no, no, I’m trying
to tell you that I’m act
ually in good spirits; or
was. Is the act of sending
you these updates the problem?
They do not help if, by design,
this is the best I can do. That
much I know. Even as I attempt
to be upbeat. I’ve got chicken
legs in the refrigerator which
I can cook now along with some
rice, and a rice-cooker within which
to make the rice and a skillet atop a
single electric burner upon which to
fry the chicken. The room is relatively
clean (I’m not mentioning one fact about
it that I’m just not going to mention, besides
the broken bed, besides the fact that it’s an
SRO, and that I reside in this SRO in the hood
in my favorite city and cannot get into a new
place and therefore cannot see my guy in the
same vicinity as me until I get a job and move
into a new place) – and defeat. Not defeat.
Never defeat. Defeat is death. And I’m yet
alive. Right now, in fact, I feel very alive,
even as I stew over all of the obstacles,
and try to sort of calculate, based on
history, what might come next. I
will get there. It’s mostly (mostly)
silly for me to think of time as a
quickly ticking timer that counts
down to an ever-swiftly nearing
zero. Like if I had a real kitchen
and were baking something in the
oven. The ding ding when the timer
hits zero does not mean the end of
life or the apocalypse, but that the
bread is baked, the pizza is done,
your potato is ready, etc., etc.
All good stuff. Because I am
nothing if not hungry.

mmmmciv

Nose to the Rose

When I’ve lost all
means of slamming
my nose to the grind
stone, that’s when it
seems easiest to for
get. Everything that
keeps my thoughts
lustrous, keeps my
focus secure. And
when, as I’m barely
able to get my feet
out of bed just to
do the simplest of
necessities, much
less those things
that will elevate
me, will get me
out of the stink
in which I am
stuck, it’s really
hard to muster
such a simple
thought as
this: to get
to the grind
stone one
must go
through
the rose.
Nose to the
rose. Nose
to the rose.
Never give
in to the
pessimism
when, just
take a look
around, con
centrate on
what’s deep
within, and
put your
nose to
the rose,
Del. Wade
through the
thorns if you
must, but
breathe in
the brew of
the blooms
and it will
get you
through
this mess
and into
the next.

mmmmciii

Snuffle Fluffed, or
Chicken Avenged

Quite a kerfuffle,
the sneezin’ and
wheezin’ that rings
in the ears. Been

cooped up so that
I live in a bubble.
But sometimes
that bubble’s a

bubble of bones,
not anything so
light and airy as
feathers – check

out how fine are
mine. But back
to the sputterin’
and noisy con

gestion, the hacks
and the cackles
with round about
half of the coop

filled with snotty
hens lying flat on
their backs. I
couldn’t even step

sidewise without
a spittin’ attack,
and let me tell
you that chicken

phlegm is a rotten
thing to find upon
one’s ruffled-up
feathers, yes sir,

it’s disgustin’,
there’s no way
around it. So
what am I gonna

do, I thought, as
I twisted in circles
in the noon-day
heat just to avoid

all the sick chicks?
And I kept that
routine ’cuz it’s
true, get over it,

we chicks like a
dumb routine
every now and
again, it’s a great

way for a chicken
to meditate. And
that’s when it hit
me, or after about

a hundred or so
of clawing out
circles in the
fenced-in dirt.

I’ll escape! But
how? And wouldn’t
you know it, I flapped
these gorgeous arms

of mine and without
even a skip and a jump
I started to rise. What
a bunch of lies we’ve

been fed. To think,
a chicken can actually
fly? Well, this gobbler
did. Don’t even ask

me where I think I
am at the moment.
All I can say is that
this happy bird has

done flown the coop.
And don’t you even
think I’ll be back. No
more pullets for me.

Who needs roosters
anyway. Those old
wardens can find
their eggs down at

Quail Ridge or Pea
hen Bluff or perhaps
down in the swampy
pond from those

crooked ducks. Or,
or – and this has me
gigglin’ so hard that
I’m almost cacklin’ –

for all I care they
can head down to
the other end of the
world and make peace

with an ostrich or three.
That certainly would be a
deliciously spiteful thing
to see. If you ask me.

mmmmcii

Severing Severity
(Disinterest Delays Death)

If you take yourself
too seriously you’re
a narcissist. But if

you’re not incredibly
passionate about that
thing or those things

most important you’re
a what? A lollygagger
to put it nicely. If you

sink into an utterly sol
itary world doing that
most important thing.

Or being with it. Or
learning it by rote.
Or understanding it.

Well, then you’re a
hermit. If you’re a
hermit then you’ve

no clear idea whether
or not you’re an expert
at doing that thing or

being with that thing
that’s most important,
or you’re just a joke at it.

Raise your hand if none
of this matters to you.
Those of you with your

hands raised are no
better or worse. But
which of these ways

of being would either
of us call a lousy way
to exist; a cursed path?

Sometimes I think I

should have just been

a stand-up comedian.

mmmmci

Divvy Democratically

“Even Stephen!” Or is he
a Steven? Look how each
kid hovers over their divvy.

“I made you a lunch you
can’t smack!” Tim thinks
his mom says before he

walks out the door on
his way to school. Then,
“Hurry up, slow-pokes, or

you’ll be late for band
practice.” She knew
neither of them played

an instrument, threw a
flag or did any percussive
click-ticking, at least with

any official objects of per
cussion. Tim had banged
his head so hard jumping

into a bus once that he’d
woken up in a hospital bed
with a concussion. Which,

he’d think, from time to
tine, “How unfair!” Because,
you see, he’d never been

banged up in such a way
that he’d have a permanent
souvenir, or at least one that

might last as long as a
plaster cast that could be
signed by all of the class

mates who didn’t speak
to him. Which were all
of his classmates. He’d

always gotten along better
with his teachers. He’d
hear all too often the

nasally screech “Teacher’s
pet! Teacher’s pet!” Which,
at this point, was not a source

of pride, but an excuse to turn
red with embarrassment. Oh,
that was his favorite. But even

at his age, which was whatever
age fifth graders were at the time,
he had within him enough of a

kernel of empathy that he felt
a bit guilty or bad or was it
perhaps even a bit of comp

assion for his younger sibs
who, for whatever reasons
such things occur, had such

troubles within that red-
bricked institution most
people remember as where,

during the daylight hours,
their trip from post-toddler
through pubescence trans

pired. If they remembered
anything at all. So his kid
brothers and little sister had

their troubles in school, never
able to get the scores that
Mom or sometimes even

Dad might deign to congrat
ulate, pridefully imagining a 

son or daughter who might

grow up and, what, escape?
“Aren’t you Tim’s younger
brother (or sister)?” they’d

often be asked as homework
was returned with frowny-
faces, or worse, throughout

the day. Or “Why can’t you
act more like your big brother?”
said before sending one of them

off to the principle. So, in retro
spect, being teacher’s pet was
not that horrible, Tim supposed.

Rather than return home to attend
to the cows and the dogs and the
cats and the horses like his younger 

siblings would, each claiming one 

or more of the beasts as their
very own, their “pets,” Tim would

flop onto his bed, dig out the
book he’d nearly finished or per
haps had just begun, and read.

This he’d do until dinner was
called, and then back he’d go
to his bed and his book after

he had eaten, reading more,
until all of the kids were
ordered to bed (this would

occur for many years at
around eight in the evening).
But Tim, having a small pen-

light, would continue to
read after that, curled under
his covers, well into the night.

And then, usually around the
time he began to hear Johnny
Carson in the distant living

room, and his dad’s occasion
al belly laugh, he’d doze off,
jerking away momentarily

shortly thereafter just to
turn off the pen light.
He didn’t mind being

that different than the rest
of the group of humans with
whom he lived, those folks who

were, and he’d sigh as he
thought of this, blood relatives.
Sure, it was all a bit exasperating

at times. But, all in all, he didn’t
have many complaints. He simply
preferred his way of being over theirs.

mmmmc

The Sounded Alarm
(Am I Sound?)

Holy what!? On the
one hand, I’ve had
plenty of time to
mull over the things

going on, in and a
bout my life for the
past several years.
But on the other,

I’ve had such an ex
traordinary share
of significant and
not so happy events

that I’ve not had a
moment to really
consider what’s
been happening,

who I am, where
I’m headed, what
my purpose is. This
just suddenly hits me.

I’ve neither the time
nor the inclination to
elaborate on any of
this at the moment,

except to say, I’m
here, I’m here, and
I plan to be here for
a long time to come,

even though that
stretch of future
shrinks ridiculously
each time I’ve really

and truly had a mo
ment to actually
consider such
matters. Oh,

Goddess of Hope,
or any relevant
and real (or not)
divinity, please

hear me out, I’m
not done, I want
to stay, and I
will, I will, I will,

but whatever
authority you
might have in
the matter,

whomever I’m
sending such
uneasy thoughts
to tonight, I’ll

do my best to
make worth
while and
stretch in

said duration
that you might
be able to
accommodate.

Thank you,
thank you,
all hail,
and amen!

mmmmxcix

Men Are From Mars

“Earth to Stacy, come in
Stacy,” absurdist Earl
wanted a couple of lug
nuts, to be sure. Stacy

kept her distance, soap
ing up the dishes for a
second time, just to be
on the safe side. Earl

practically lived under
neath that console, his
primary objective there:
calling out to life on pot

ential proxy planets. “As
if!” thought Stacy, as Earl
skipped around in a bit of
a herky-jerky manner in

what used to be the living
room (“No living here,”
thought Stacy) for a
couple of spare lug nuts.

Little did Stacy know he’d
finally gotten through to
someone, to something,
and spent the rest of the

afternoon trying to ascer
tain whether they were
friend or foe. Earl always
assumed friend, figuring

that if there were foes,
the entire population of
the planet, if not already
decimated, would know

very well about their ex
istence by now. Stacy,
safer than ever, seeing
Earl in even more of a

tizzy than she had grown
accustomed to for the
past decade or so (“God,
and I could have married

Spencer Talbot,” she could
not help but think, as she
often did of late), went
about scrubbing and then

rinsing the dishes for a
third round, just to re
main in her own little
world. Earl had planned

to inform his wife once
he broke for a bit of a
nap, but by the time
he got to the bedroom

she was already snor
ing. That had been
shortly after midnight.
Before it was one o’

clock in the morning,
Earl would have the
misfortune of clearly
knowing which side

of the fence these
beings from outer
space belonged,
and as his body

evaporated from
their home of
twenty-nine
years of marriage,

reappearing in
a most elaborate
torture chamber
that came from

somewhere not
of his world, his
heart sunk, and
his thoughts, at

least when he
was able hence
forth to have
any, went lov

ingly to Stacy,
along with a lot
of regret, who
awoke to an

Earl-free home
at around about
seven in the morn
ing, and she went

about the day with
out giving this emp
tiness even a second
thought, until about

midnight that night,
when she broke down
in disbelief that she’d
been abandoned. Or,

rather than disbelief,
she finally believed,
knowing that Earl
was gone from this

godforsaken planet
for good. She never
washed another dish
as long as she lived.

mmmmxcviii

A Poem of No Import

a person of insignificance
may go nowhere and will
perhaps take a very long
time getting there.

a person of interest could
be on the lam. this trip,
too, might take some
time. and being on the

run might significantly
elevate the interest, make
them more interesting, 

one might deduce.

a person of intellect
might be intelligent, but
of what significance would
that be to you or to me?

let’s just call that person
a nerd or a geek or maybe
a bookworm. i find of interest
that potentially, and perhaps

significantly, books and
persons have something
in common, at least in
evitably, which is worms.

mmmmxcvii

The Loss of Youth

Look! I found a
flower from the
distant past.
Maybe two.
Still intact.
Is it you?

mmmmxcvi

Boo Hoo!

The sweatiest of sweat;
the downiest of down.
Even when the phone
rings at 7am with what,
on the surface, would
seem like fantastic news.
The blues won’t dissipate.
These feelings tend to even
tually evaporate, but what
to do when you have to
wear them like a pair of
cloying t-shirts back in the
hot summer state of your
humid youth. What if the
only thing left is to admit
(And to whom? Oneself?
Me? What is defeat if
there’s no one to whom
you might appropriately
tell?) defeat? It’s the
hopelessness that’s
new. And what is
there to do but
(What?) hope
that, like al
ways, this,
too, will
pass.
And
fast?!

mmmmxcv

Staggering Stagnation!

which sounds quite ex
pletive and a bit like
“sufferin’ succotash!”
only i’d imagine it is
way worse, though
yosemite sam might
disagree. did he not
at least have a job?
it appears that he
sometimes did. as
a prison guard on
occasion, and at
others as a police
officer, but mostly
he was just a cantank
erous gunslinger, i’d
say. more of an out
lying outlaw, right?
(there’s a thought,
hmm...) i think of my
pacifism as some
thing of a hallmark,
but who even knows
me, especially these
days? and even those
who ever did, well,
would they even
have a clue about
my pacifism? would
they think it (another)
delusion? i won’t deny
that i must’ve surely come
across as full of contra
dictions at the very
least. but therein
somewhere lies
a value system
that harbors a
few sturdy truths.
surely? that has
to be the case, or
at least i’d argue (in
terminably, at least).
maybe this is really
just an attempt at
an elucidating ditty
on mental health
issues. i’ve been
a bit obsessed of
late with comed
ians who center
their routines so
transparently on
this subject,
like the brilliant
maria bamford,
whom i’ve spent
hours watching
this past week, and
who has basically
built her entire career,
it seems, around that
subject, as literally
wrapped within it as
she will quickly point
out that she is. i could
name numerous others
whose routines i’ve
watched excessively
as well as obsessively
over the past couple
of years or so that
gravitate toward
similar themes. like
john mulaney, whose
late work centers
on what i’d argue
is at least a sub
genre: addiction.
also carrying on
stage about such
things, often in
a rofl manner:
neal brennan, amy
schumer, chelsea
handler, etc., and
that’s just the list i
have at the forefront
of my memory to
night, but the list
goes on and on, to
the point that these
mental health issues
seem to abnormally
occupy quite a
large percentage
of modern comedy
culture. what about all
of this was i getting at?
well, to bring it all
back, there are two
states of undoing
for me that seem
to bring my
motivation
to a screeching
halt, especially
when they appear
together in what
i’d call a double
whammy scenario.
they are depression
and pennilessness.
it’s not as if they
don’t already have
a codependent
relationship with
each other, as
well as a bit of
a chicken/egg
conundrum
going on, but
it’s very clear
to me that when
either, or espe
cially when both
rear their ugly
heads, there is
nothing that i can
count on more than
finding myself losing
my mojo, slowing
down into a lethargic
creep, if not shutting
down entirely. my
world becomes one
in which all i can do
is try to will the time
away until they both
go away, a counter
intuitive tack if ever
there was one, as i
live in the swamp of
stagnation and pro
crastination. i’ve
tried seemingly
every trick in the
book (where, oh
where, could such
a book be, i do
wonder) to stave
off these derail
ments, the most
recent being a
simple and sol
emn vow to
simply refuse
to enter that
swamp, to veer
away, steer as
clear from the
quicksand and
muck as i can,
and have some
how convinced
myself that this
is possible. well,
i suppose i will
very soon see
whether it is.
possible, i mean.
because i can see
those two villains
arriving as i type
these words to
send to you. if
you’re kind enough
for such simple
things, i’d be
ever so gracious
for a good vibe,
a pleasant thought
aimed in my general
direction, or even a
hushed wish of good
luck. i am ever so
appreciative. and
feel free to stay
tuned for the
next dramatic
installment that
will reveal how
i beat the odds
and revel in the
amazing results
of what a smidge

of remaining
confidence will
surely deliver
to a downtrodden
contrarian like me.

mmmmxciv

Artsy Fartsy Wedding Party

Aloysius does the dishes.
Marcia McAfferty’s looking
quite pretty. And our dear
friend Benjamin’s gotten
himself his usual, a latté
generously sprinkled with

cinnamon. Cory doesn’t
have a worry in the world
this fine morning; he walks
to work thinking of his night
with Taffeta Loring, with whom,
of late, he’s racked up a quite

generous amount of scoring.
Nothing at all seems boring
in the town of Turnbull, at
least until Ms. Trimble finds
herself slightly off-center
thanks to a mild temblor.

But she’s not fretting. For
tonight’s her wedding.
After school, like a fool,
this regular substitute
teacher and her beau,
Mr. McFletcher, who’s a

Professor at the University
of Northwestern will head
directly to the home of their

pastor (the Reverend Astor),
and wow, in wedding
attire so stunning that

Reverend Astor’s tick,
his nervous humming
(you should catch him
when he sings, it’s quite
the thing when he’s alone
at home, his thick baritone

is syrupy slick, and with that
comes cunningly imaginative
lyrics; Astor was once con
sidered a stock but adroit
poet back in college, which,
wouldn’t you know it, was a

relatively unknown college
in Detroit, the name of which

is – oh, I forget it,  – ). And 

yet, you bet that I and all 

of the the cool people of Turn
bull are giddy for the spectacle

of the town’s most renowned 

wedding of the year, there’s no 

doom nor gloom here, for the 

citizens are astir as they whir
about gleefully anticipating the 

betrothal of Mr. McFletcher and
Ms. Trimble. Darlene Decatur,
the Astors’ neighbor and local
interior decorator has the Rev’s
rooms so splendidly abloom that
all of Turnbull’ll remember, and

with pride and with splendor,
the soon-to-be marriage, in
the good Reverend Alister
Astor’s flawlessly decorated
living room (thematically hued
in Ms. Trimble’s favorite blues),

of Turnbull’s beloved betrothed:
the Honorable Hector McFletcher
and the inimitable Maribel Trimble.