mmmmcccxiv

i dance so that you won’t fade away

let’s be at peace
enlivened as you no longer
are and revel in what of you—having been taken from us—we still
have of your joie de vivre as you fly to all of those
              faraway places we’ve yet to encounter

mmmmcccxiii

Spinning My Tale
One More Time
Just for You

i shall tell today’s
story all cheeky with
humor and happy and
lighthearted levity

and that means
without any arc 

of severity rendering
this chip that’s been

stuck in the craw of
my shoulder non
existent
but hell it’s

still here and it
hurts it exists
but that doesn’t
matter tonight

so i whisper my
fairy tale day
in all of its glorious
detail into your ear

come over here
i whisper
the closer you get
the tale that into

your most notable
ear i do whisper
and whisper and
whisper til all that

is left of me is but
that whisper a story
that comes to its end
as if a very last breath

a vapor which dances
a dance that is brief
as it twists and it turns
is expelled from a mouth

that was here and yet
now it just isn’t
all that is left is
a miniature wisp

that’s
aswirl like a
skater on ice
that keeps

spinning
faster and
faster 
until

almost
ethereal
my last
little puff

of existence
is a blur spun
as tight as
a bit that is

forcing a screw
into drywall
only up up and
in it goes it

has made its
way all the
way into your
beautiful ear

how sweet it
would be just
to watch it
so disappear

mmmmcccxii

reversal of misfortune

old school optimist
turned cynic after
years of bad luck.
this after nearly

a long enough life
that was a steady
vector angling ever
upward at just a

steep enough grade
to maintain giddy and
hopeful. until bingo!
voilà! everything’s

perfect. which lasts
a year or two or three
until seemingly over
night perfection

vanishes. every day
thereafter is a series
of jabs, bam! clocked
in the jaw by blow

after blow, each
with increasing
severity until near

submission into a

nightmare of tragic
existence.  and faith
is nothing but a
chronic irreversible

illness and that

sweet memory of a
smooth escalator
ridden skyward 

is flogged into 

a vividly colorized 

dream, a mere 

fantasy.  its presence

and my part in it
all but uncertain. how
to believe i was once
the beloved star of

such a tale, accustomed

for so long now to the
bleak tornado that’s
turned that distant

past into all but
non-existence.
what a difference
a day can make,

except, however,
i won’t hold a breath,
nor allow one day’s
fortune to drag me

down into another
labyrinth of delusion.
knock on wood and
belay the craggy

canyon swelling
with superstition.
move forward
once again and

in an even
steeper
direction.
common

sense and this
unexpected
reversal of
misfortune

needn’t be
jinxed by its
most joyous
mention. and

just in case i’ll
bind my fingers
crossed as i
traverse a

pleasant night of
sleep as this fine 

day makes way 

for the next one.

mmmmcccxi

Cityscape Scatterbrain

If at ease with oneself
is the goal, I should be
one of the most comfort
able men in the universe.

If I walk out the door, am
I making my way to the
grocery store or just to
meander the city like a

tourist? I once was quite
social and now I’m a hermit,
had a circle of friends that I
knew I could count on. A

decade goes by. A gentle
man walks into a bar, runs
into an old acquaintance.
It has been ten years.

Always a skeptic, I trust no
one. It would be wrong to
say that I never have, but
it was always my predilec

tion, at least once adult
enough to realize that
no one is completely
transparent. A world

where pragmatism and
idealism and skepticism
and hope are unrealistic
notions that are necessary

to juggle day after day.
Refusing to believe that
progress is an illusion,
the shell-shocked man

continued to move in a
general direction, one
step awkwardly and
nervously and intermit

tently and yet ceaseless
ly in front of the other.

mmmmcccx

While You Were Out #4

Del’s PayPal account
representative called.
She says the $100 he’s
been waiting for two weeks
to arrive in his business account
has been in his personal account for
two weeks, but that his personal account
is blocked, since it was canceled 5 years ago
for lack of payment for two Chevron charges
that he insists (and still does) were not

his.  About an hour later, Del

called to remind
you that
this is
not a
pop
ular
ity con
test. Says,
Stiff upper
lip. Tread
warily. That
sort of thing.
What he seemed
most excited about,
the very reason for the
call, I’d surmise, was to
invite you to a party he’s
throwing this Saturday
afternoon. There’ll be
hopscotch (he’s com
missioned four artists
who’re currently
painting away
at his lawn),
croquet
and (Of
course!
he chimes)
fancy photobooths.
I dislike these messages,
I say, aloud, but whimpering,

who’s broke and confused now?
Something indeed seems quite off.

mmmmcccix

While You Were Out #3

Del called. Says he wants
to know what it’s like to
have people think he’s
shallow, vapid. Any
ideas?

mmmmcccviii

While You Were Out #2

     And that’s the way it is.
                  —Walter Cronkite

Del called. The notes here
say “something about whether
eking out little victories that
lead to progress, idealist and/or

otherwise—and whether such
winning requires either a modicum
of memory or an act of the imag
ination. Either or both? Who

is this guy? Now he sits in his
just too tiny for comfort home
of short term memory. Today,
presently (oddly satisfied, con

tent.) He has just finished watching
the first season of an apocalyptic tv
series. Listening to the news while
slamming away at his writing

utensil is a grave mistake
(grave as in…?). In this episode
he is, at the very least, a member
of the cast. Is he not? Proving

what? In his hands, the pages
of a book are whirring with a
whoosh that is a shush, as his
thumb shifts over the middle

of the collection’s lips. Haven’t
finished one of these in over
a year, he thinks solemnly,
nostalgically. The infusion

of news helps keep him from
winning this war. Or clarity of
focus is an outdated model. He
concentrates, ever open to chaos.

mmmmcccvii

Augmented Plot

     …I’m getting better and better-er
     I do not see no competitors…
                           —Cardi B

Laid too hard in the
heat of the day. Now

it’s time to get up.
There’s no way I can

possibly endure one
more minute of in

action, not a chance
in hell I can sustain

these troublesome
distractions any

longer. And yet
this limbo agitato

endures. I keep
finding ways. Why

did I come to this
world in such a

rush to get so much
accomplished? A

hedonistic over-
achiever who is

prone to procrasti
nation, yet with each

second that passes
in which nothing is

produced I’m over
whelmed with noise,

a crescendo of guilt
for each moment

that passes for which
I’ve no way to prove

to myself or to you
that the moment

even existed?? And
at this rate, what will

be left when I’ve gone
from this earth to

begin to hint at
this idiot’s existence?

How to resist this
headlong rush so

determined to erase
all traces of me from

this planet? And yet
what would I do with

a bit of attention, to
have a few folks, even

one see or hear me?
To notice that I’m here

making noises for what?
And of course when I’m

gone there will be no
excuse, who’ll need or

even want a map or a
few hidden clues to

this most nondescript
trajectory? I’d like to

beg to differ, to use
as motivation a way

to gather the energy
to make a bigger noise,

to leave a bigger map,
one less mysterious

for folks less interested
in buried treasure than

a life that was lived not
just to generate a nice

and modest existence,
one that might have

someone tilt their head
this way and that as if

looking for something
important just beyond

a distance, and then
upon spotting a glimmer,

and returning the head to 

aim forward, might grin with

some sort of comfort for
some short distance in

which they are moving,
from here, say, to there.

mmmmcccvi

Scorched

     You call me dead but I say not yet
                        —Evan Kennedy

Although, if
I’m being
honest
(and
when
am I ever
not?), I’m
a little bit
flattered
that you’d
call me
anything
at all.

mmmmcccv

Left Wanting

I have been thinking about
sex a lot, lately. If I qualify

that by adding “more than
usual,” all things being relative,

I think I’d just wonder how much
more I think of it than most people

do. Surely? Anyway, I’ve a few
ideas why such things are on my

mind a bit more than average
these days, or it might be easy

to come up with a few somewhat
reasonable suspects. Objectively?

I’m not certain I could be 100%,
but there are things true to me that

I’m sure I could make convincing
were I to argue an explanation.

However, with apologies, I wouldn’t
put any of you through that sort of

torture. Mostly, I’m thinking that the
person belonging to a head that is

even more overwhelmed than usual
with thoughts of sex might have a bit

of difficulty focusing on the things that
absolutely must get done, distasteful

protestant fundamentalist notion
that that is. But it happens. And

how could it not be that one thing
would lead logically to the other?

The non-protestant answer to this
problem would appear to me to be

go out and get some. And is that
not logical? So that one might live.

What is living, after all, without
the occasional bit of physical fun.

That is all I shall say here. And
the discipline it took to get

here telling you (only) this
has, as far as I can tell,

only further frustrated
this poor writer. And yet,

this overwhelmed mind is
a bit amused at how these

lines, even with such a
subject matter, say almost

nothing. Which makes me
eager to lay out the wild

and expansive set of circum
stances that have landed me

here just to leave you hanging.
That is, if I have even begun to

sell my sorry story that is nothing,
really, but a notion with a big hole

blown clean through most of it,
leaving a mess that, on the whole,

is quite skeletal, nothing but
a carapace really, despite the one

hint that would require at least
a bit of flesh so that all here

might be reconciled; so that the
idea might bloom into a story that

comes to a properly salacious
conclusion. Ever the love robot…

Nerd poem. Dismissing asexual
tendencies? The poem as outcast.

mmmmccciv

The Nuances Of What Is Unique About Me

In twilight’s hush, where steam engines sigh
Amidst forgotten tomes and dusty skies
A melancholy airship sails by
With cargo holds of forgotten sighs

The captain’s log, a tome of worn leather
Chronicles tales of love, loss, and weather
A pocket watch ticks on, a loyal friend
As the ship sails on, till journey’s end

In the cargo bay, a phonograph plays
Echoes of jazz, in a bygone day
A gramophone’s gentle, crackling voice
Whispers secrets, of a forgotten choice

The stars above, a celestial sea
Guide the airship, on its destiny
Through skies of wonder, where dreams unfold
A tale of magic, yet to be told

mmmmccciii

The Big Rumble

Del called to let you know
that he’s finally figured out
what’s been different since
the Big Rumble; that he
now knows the woes of
his own obstacles. The
first one is that he can’t
find the electrical sockets,
so no more connection,
no more engagement,
thanks to no more
frolicking zip and
no more frolicking
zap. The second
one, and he says
that there may
be a bit of a
chicken and
egg conun
drum here,
as if that
even mat
ters, he
notes, but…
the second
one is the
pariah
thing.
He says
he thinks
he’s men
tioned this
one before,
like out of
nowhere,
as an issue
of some sort,
but as something
he may have brought
upon himself, he assumed
it might be sort of phase
he could wriggle out of.
But now he knows the truth.
Now he knows it’s just a thing.
A thing that has no doubt
irrevocably changed him,
that cannot be reversed,
just like the no connection
with electricity thing, just
like the dissapeared elec
trical sockets. So he says
with ‘definity’ that these
characteristics, these
features, the ones
that are most resound
ingly new since the
Big Rumble, they
now simply make up
who he is and will be,
at least ever since that
wretched day. He’s not
arguing or saying any
thing with any hope
or positivity or even
negativity. These
are just the two
things that are
different about
him since then.
That’s it.
That’s all
he wanted
to relay.
He says
he’ll call
again
next
year
for
sure.

mmmmcccii

The First Word Found
Behind Each Buckle

Belt that one out at
breakneck, why don’t
you? We’re already
all the way back to

2006, and things are
generally fine (I rem
ember wine and fine
dining, Valentine’s and

rolls of twine). Papaw, a
numismatist, got us already 

worn-looking leather belts 

apiece, each with its own

shimmering bicentennial
$ coin. “Heads, you win!”

mmmmccci

Unorthodox Plop

It was the end of another
era. I had broken my
reading glasses. This
happened, I want to
say often? But it
hasn’t been often
that I’ve afforded
such luxuries. I
could add these
days but fail to
comprehend
at the moment
how to succinctly
discern them from
any other. With any
distinction.  Although to
begin, I could squeal how
once upon a time that might’ve
been the glitter that defined. I
squinch my eyes into a steep scarp
trying to make something out of this.
But slap the alarm, who am I kidding?
Unlike the gorgeous sky, were it not so
damned dark, I’m downright indistinguishable.

mmmmccc

Great Form, Croc

Ask for information
regarding. Four

years ago, October.
Follow up with

which one?
The dead one,

probably.
Regrettably.

You will
never know.

And when the man
says he has no

regrets whatsoever,
you’d better believe him.

mmmmccxcix

A Fuzzier Plane of Existence

I exist
on a

fuzzier
plane,

in general,
I’d say.

But if we
were to talk

grossest
area of fuzziness,

then we might
have to start

again
from scratch.

mmmmccxcviii

Botched Surgical Email

I dug out an email
with the subject
“Dir. Gen. Surgery Division.”

The next thing you know,
it appears that I’m
quoting Emily Dickinson.

The bottom two-thirds
of the torn out full-sized
originally spiral-bound sheet

is some sort of attempt at
rejiggering somebody’s
family tree or,

and this regrettably
is much more likely,
a company’s organizational chart.

mmmmccxcvii

Today’s Terror

Today’s terror
is too much food.
That is my
favorite
terror. I
don’t usually
like terror but
this is one
terror
that
I
can
get behind.

mmmmccxcvi

2 Days

3 conversations about
gingers. No call to the
Ginger, but I should
call her later today,

say hi to her tomorrow.
Don’t put off to tomorrow
what can be done today,
is that the way the saying

crumbles? Shaw says it’s
the year of a particular
dragon, the Wooden Dragon.
I insist I’ve taken a step back

from that nonsense, but now
am curious. He says it’s going
to be an entrepreneurial year.
I write two extra lines in hopes.

mmmmccxcv

More of Little or
No Consequence

Change in hand: $2.90.
Bills to pay today: $5.00.
Tickets to purchase: $1.00.
What year was this, 1979?

Fraudulent Lyft: $100 11/22.
Two more lines with no verb
iage: $1 and $87.02. Re-emp
hasize to M how awesome it

was to hear from him first
thing this morning. (Unless)
This parenthetical hanging,
just like that, a few steps away

from “this morning.” To walk out

through the door today is goal #1.

mmmmccxciv

Keep In Mind

And with breakneck
speed, examine for
the purposes of hair
cleanliness, diagram

of faction. Questions
of what is happening
on the 1st of September.
No, send 1st to Steph

anie? Partiality for fe
male/gay. Particularly?
Questions about what’s
haps. Happening. Radar:

broad-based magazines.
Also, think about Naropa.

mmmmccxciii

People That Grow Up, Though

I’d like to have a very serious
engagement with several of
them to see what they think
this means so I can determine

whether or not I have achieved
such an accomplishment (if an
accomplishment such a thing
is), and how they got there

and maybe see if they think
I have made progress in such
matters. Today I worked on
filling out disability forms. I

do not want to be on disability
but try to remain proactive as
I’ve tried like mad to get a job
for how many years now and

still do not have one. This is
not a sonnet unless one wants
to be snooty or perhaps more
open-minded about such things.

Do you know my preference,
snooty or open-minded? That
would be something if you didn’t.
I prefer an open mind above most

anything, I’d say. Most things,
anyway. Otherwise, why bother?

mmmmccxcii

Chicken & Egg Delusional

Predictably, I have begun this
piece with a title. And for this
piece, that’s all I had to begin
with, no other ideas, just a title

scribbled weeks or so ago, in hopes
that something might follow that
would be of any relevance or inspira
tion. There are other ways these

words can be of interest. They might
literally be a set of instructions for a
procedure that has eluded the reader
for quite some time, and/or could be

utilized invaluably from this point forward,
saving the reader time or adding value.

mmmmccxci

Rehash

As if Discombobulated
were my middle name
(not Ray, as in a Ray
of Sunshine, which

would be a much nicer
way to live, and perhaps
could once have been
debated as true...truer?),

let’s take up a bit more
of these sonnets made from
sheafs of handwritten dis
tractions, Disco Bob.

1) Nomad types; there is no
number two. But this is a start.

mmmmccxc

My Phony Baloney-land
or,
Utopia’s Stunning Dose
of Pretense Is Quite a
Kick in the Teeth!

I’m certain that I’m missing
something terribly integral
here, but sometimes it’s nice
to just roll with these little
notions that seem so poignant
when they first creep into con
sciousness. Tonight I’ve some

how gotten sidetracked into del
ving into the heart of my con
flicted feelings about pretense,
for which, in my typical geminian
way, I’ve had a lifelong love-hate
thing, wherein I cravenly seek out
and at the same time have utter

contempt for the fake of it all.
Phony baloney is to my mind
entirely too prevalent, inescap
able now. So my next thought
is how pretense, in and of itself,
seems so often to me to either be
a class construct or a criminal one.

And these two particular avenues
into the swamp of surreality are,
whether or not one is conscious of
even traveling either route, anti
thetical to what I’d consider my
idea(l) of living well; they’re quite
problematic, downright cruel. Then

I remember that this living and being
NOT oneself is what “lies” at the heart
of theatrical, and of cinematic. This
thought, that my art form, or at least
the one to which I am indebted, the
one because of which I am still deeply
in debt, and that for which I (quite

proudly, I should add) have two paper
degrees, a fact for which I hold not
even one ounce of regret, is, at its
core, by its very nature, constrained
indelibly by a long set of rules on del
ivering in the most convincing way,
dishonesty. It is the art of being UN

real. So, with my brain duly evapo
rated, I decide it’s time to stave off
these all-too-dandy-and-overwhelm
ing thoughts, to hit pause on “big
thinking” until I’m up to it again.
And sure enough, I’ve got what I
at first think the perfect antidote

coming right up. For I can see right
here in my calendar just the thing: it
is time for the latest round with my 

D&D team. RPG to the rescue! Yay 

and hooray!  And then it hits me, rising

like a methane bubble from my drained 

brain’s last gasp of common sense! Oof!!

mmmmcclxxxix

Birtch, You Ol’ Sir Reality!

I humbly request that we skip
the pretense, the, you know,
that façade, just for today, might
that be okay? Unlike everything

else, I mean. Which is the sitch,
you see: everything is not okay.
Or is it? I suppose we’ll all have
to wait until tomorrow to get a

potentially solid answer to that
question. Only, I digress—as in
—back to my line of questioning.
Am I okay? If so, how long will

I remain so? If not, how long will
that last? If so, what to do next?

mmmmcclxxxiii

What’s the Big Mystery?

This is condescending,
by the way. So in that spirit,
what’s with the mirror in this piece. 

There are tons of them all over the place,

in general. But found in this genre, they
most often exist individually. And just to elevate

things, if you can’t see vibrating

(forceful or otherwise) silhouettes
somewhere in the gloss of the moment
of the mirror’s first appearance in said work
of art, then we call that foreshadowing.
I’d say this is the kind that is mostly mere
indication, a positive thing, rather than 

anything that spells general or specific doom.

It might be so positive that, should the viewer(s)
be thinking critically of film, in any conscious way,
it would likely be unintentionally, or so I would assume,
given that it is one of our genres that is least associated 

and even perhaps quite rarely adjacent to the notion of,
I’m gonna introduce the potentially derailing term
artistic or academic or geek-associative, criticism,
wherein foreshadowing is a mechanism whereby
we, the audience, might (over)think, much less
splice and/or extricate and/or debate/detail this
normally elevated often complex or debatable or
aha! literary device. It would and should
normally just pass us by, such a generically
standard set piece in this kind of thing. We’d 

ordinarily be thoughtless to its presence, unless 

in an expectant way.  That is, if any thought even 

were to go into such a thing. The thought might 

come bearing down us once the set piece is literally 

utilized. Thanks to the reflex of being mind-numbingly 

beaten into the general psyche’s zeitgeist’s or populous’ 

kink-zone, this particular and next to ubiquitous set piece,

given its purpose (rather than any representation, a literal

function).  In actuality, when it is, let’s say, put into play, 

and I could be wrong about the noticeability vs. well, 

of course it’s there vs. the looking ahead, oh, wait, I can 

already sense a quite significant thoughtful reason for its 

placement, again, most often in retrospect.  Such that

literal, visceral fast-forwarding might immediately
transpire thanks to an initial non-use of it.  It being,

again, one of the most frequent set pieces in this, 

probably our most prevalent artistic genre.  In fact,

perhaps our most lauded genre; a genre we might call 

our official national genre, should such an association be 

given with pretty much anything beyond a bit of 

fleeting, rare and/or randomly cunning consideration.

mmmmcclxxxii

AhmaRequiem a’Twang

Predictably, she’d been 

multi-tasking. All pastiche,
checkin’ out some Nope,

smokin’ down with dope’s Pope. & every

thing else.  Caught Puccini at the Met,
maybe twice, let’s just say. Took in
some Queen while makin’ some snappy
sandwiches, a family picnic, al dente, sprung from Mercury’s

range, all the while, with a wand swimmin’ in
spangle and a finger curled all cumm’ere;

she brought us one by one out of the hiding corners
and the shadows’ bilges….and then, double double, she

festooned it all with an UNtoiled unpredictability that, eyes now
opened so, swam upstream, another mystery’s brainwashed misery gone awhile.

mmmmcclxxxi

Trenz

Is anyone paying attention
to politics, to political polls,
as they’d (who’d?) have us
believe? And if they are,

well, paying attention to what
ever’s hot and whatever’s not –
in general – which, surely some
body is, wouldn’t it be nice to

sort of have a look at those
as our noses go back toward
those trends in politics. Which,
yes, they tell us loud and clear,

are just trends? Because I for
one am worried. And might
that give some help? What
are people singing these days?

Oh. Do I know this one? Am
I afraid to actually ask? Frankly,
depending on how I’m dosing on
anti-anxiety medication, I’m afraid

of just about everything I hear these
days, which is mostly the news, so it
could be my problem, being a devotee
of news. No. I know getting everyone

all worked up is a mental health disaster,
but what about the other disasters, ment
al health or no? I mean despite whether
or not. I mean, what are the chances

that basic trends might tell us all we
need to know on such matters? Is
anyone looking into this?

mmmmcclxxx

Artificial Intelligence

I wonder if this is the guy
from 3 Body Problem only
made way thinner with AI.
The creepy one that makes

mils from snack foods. But
why? Certainly not for me.
Perhaps I’m known for occ
asionally partnering up with

a few skinnies, but skinny
bears? Whatever, okay,
there was the otter thing,
there was a five year

relationship. But then
there are all these really
uncomfortable sidenotes
that could be relevant.

Names do not count for
types, absolutely not. And
look how I’ve now gone
over the normally legitimized

sonnet range, yes? So don’t
have me scooped up in that
carriage of nonsense. Is this
when I out myself as the guy

who’s always been disgusted by
all of this typecasting (particularly
of the animal arena) thrown into
such sexual heaps? Yes. I’m

out. Here’s a sexual slitherer of a
stereotype, though, that I might intent

ly include, perhaps as the whole lot
of ‘em…snakes! Do I really feel that

way? I mean about snakes, the
poor things? Plus, wasn’t I always
a bit of a Range Rover. Surely you’d
agree? If you’d ever even cared.