mmmmccclv

Another Interview Question

Ah, this is so fun, so first off I’d
invite Tokischa – not Madonna,
even though I love her, but at
my birthday party? I don’t think
so. But the reason I’d invite
Tokischa is definitely because
of that raunchy video she did
remaking Madonna’s Hung Up,
with her a couple years back.
And add Joseph Gordon-Leavitt.
I don’t care that he’s grunged
out so. I just noticed he’s
Axel Foley’s new partner, what
a perfect pair they’ll be. Ooh,
and we have to have some good
old fashioned liberal journalistic
flair, so let’s make sure that
Rachel Maddow and Nicole
Wallace come. Love them!
Howard Jones is a must, of
course, and we’ll have Jamie
Lee Curtis for that wigged-out
sober zing-zing, yeah? Here’s
a blast from the past just to
add some party-fun tension,
let’s invite Nik Kershaw. At
least I always imagined that
he and Howard Jones were
arch-nemeses. Greta Gerwig
for sure. And if you’d have
asked me a couple of years
ago I would have said Ryan
Reynolds, but let’s have the
Ryan of the moment, I’m
Just Ken, come. Wow, this
party is really starting to
smack! Yorgos Lanthimos,
Catherine Deneuve (if she’s
still alive), François Ozon,
Lenny Kravitz (since MJ
and Prince are not options),
Seth Myers and Stephen
Colbert and (why not?)
Jimmy Kimmel, Miley
Cyrus, Midnight Oil (the
entire band, okay?),
Robert Downey, Jr.,
and we are going to
leave so many people
out, but let’s round this
group out with Trent
Reznor, Hannah Einbinder,
oh, and Anselm Berrigan,
Peter Gizzi and Anne Waldman!
Now that would be the most
amazing birthday party!

mmmmcccliv

Interview Moment

Oh it’d be Trevor,
I can’t even tell
you why, though,
I just totally dug
that name, maybe,
or I guess I’d heard
of two Trevors that I
know of, one being
Trevor Horn because
Howard Jones was
my favorite artist
for a lot of my
late adolescence
and teenage years,
all the way to college,
actually, I’d perform
Dream Into Action,
you know, the title
track of his album
that was a follow-up

to the one that had the

number one hit New Song.

This album also had what

is probably his most 

recognizable hit,

No One Is to Blame

(only not the version 

with Phil Collins
playing the
drums), but

instead, like I

said,  the title 

track which wasn’t

released and which
nobody but me knew.
But I knew it. I’d always
wear a plaid house robe,
get up on the coffee table
and lip sync to the entire
song (and yes, I knew
every word). The other
Trevor was Trevor Winkfield.
And here is where my 

memory screws me over

because I was not that

young when I discovered

Winkfield, that British 

artist and writer who 

had such colorful,
mechanical-looking
paintings and was
friends with most
of the original
New York School
of Poets.  So I had
no idea who Trevor
Winkfield was until
I was at least in my
30s, which was well

beyond my Trevor-

loving years.

Nonetheless, 

in answer to your

question, I guess
the name that struck me
as fantastic from the moment
I saw it on the liner notes of 

the Howard Jones albums I
purchased originally in
cassette tape versions
somehow became the
it name for me for a

while. But, well, 

the truth is, I
would not want any
other name, no way,
I love my name in the
end. I mean Trevor is
nice, but my full name,
well, my Dad came up
with it, and it’s a splendid
name, seems to me like
it could be on a marquis,
and I use my whole name,
otherwise it’s pretty dull,
but with my middle name,
yeah, that’s the name I
publish with and it was
the name I’d do theatre
with, so, yeah, I love
the name I have.
Second best is still
Trevor, though.

mmmmcccliii

A Shrug Isn’t Exactly What I’m Saying

Feeling a bit melancholy
on a Friday, but can I also
say I’m feeling more alive
and healthy and hopeful

than I’ve felt in a very
long time (pardon while
I intentionally do not
attempt to calculate

that duration). Does
everyone not hold such
conflicting feelings at
once on a general basis?

I guess not, but as we
enter June, this Gemini
says with confidence,
hesitance and a little

bit of pride and glee:
I do. And a hello
from mixed up me
to beautiful you.

mmmmccclii

Body & Soul

I, tenderly,
am an awkward
person. It isn’t
that I’m not of
a mind. It’s just
that generally,
awkward, anxious,
flighty, always
thinking ten
steps ahead,
these things
don’t render
the tender.
Regardless
of this logical
incapability,
I try. I do
try. And
speaking
of logic,
the typical
mode I use
to walk through
each day in hopes
of making it to another
in the most pleasant and
satisfying way, I am,
nevertheless, an
idealist, a rom
antic. I mean
I make my way
awkwardly through
these days I intend to
complete, if only just
to get to the next,
a poet. If that
means I’m a
romantic
with a
capital
R
or just
makes me
the Gemini
that I purportedly
am, I’ll take that
dichotomy, stumble
around in my various
ways with it, and make
it my own. In fact, as
logic would suggest,
I’ll use that conflict
to better place one
foot in front of
the other in
doing so,
even if
from any
perspective
that act lacks
legitimate grace.

mmmmcccli

Abstract Painting

My favorite memory
is full of color, lots of
blues for the water
running through the

city, golden from the
brilliant sun, pastels
from the paint cover
ing the residences

alongside. Architect
ure that doesn’t feel
metallic, is organic
in that space, being

at a deficit, is fully
utilized. Water drains
behind my eyes, such
pleasure in the aesth

etic. A gondolier’s
song. The only rain
showers were upon
entry to the city of

the most pleasure
and, with a beautiful
stark black umbrella,
from that famous

square in the hours
before having to
head back into
routine civilization.

mmmmcccl

Poem from Stone

How long should it last?
Is it the marker for a
grave? What do I want
to say, if given the opp

ortunity, to you? Who
are you and what is it
like to be here at...
when is this? It would

have to be about me.
I like the feeling I get
writing that. It’s so
naughty. Or maybe it

could be inhuman,
filled with active verbs
turned nouns. Me,
erased completely.

That seems so insincere.
Or. Maybe you could come
here. Save me (us) from
what you know took me (us).

Do you have the cure?
Imagine nothing. Blank space.
A sheaf of paper with nothing
on it. No blood. No ink. From me.

mmmmcccxlix

A Smooth June

I’d found an apartment
just beneath Nob Hill,
where even back then
people would say
TenderNob rather than
Tenderloin. Lower Nob
Hill. I made a little
office out of half of the
closet of that studio
apartment. It had a
window with a pretty
view behind the old
fire station that had
become the residence
of the Fire Chief, or
had been. The current
Fire Chief had stayed
at their current residence.
Or that was my under
standing. But there
was a lovely back lawn
behind it that I could
see out that window,
which was spotted with
live blooming plants
here and there. This
was my first room with
a view in the city that
has become my home,
where I’ve lived longer
than any other city.
Or town. Or state,
even. I had a little
bookshelf in that
office, the bottom
shelf of which was
filled with journals
I’d filled over the
years, my diaries,
which I no longer
have, having lost
the last of all that
I’d kept from the
beginning of time,
my time, when I
was fifty and with
out a home. Any
way, the flowers,
such a pretty thing
to see during the
day. And at night,
way up in the sky
and to the north,
my right, looking
out that window,
I’d see the huge
neon sign that I
knew stood atop
the Hotel Huntington.
I suppose I know this
because the words
in neon were “Hotel
Huntington.” At
night in my new
studio apartment
where I wrote the
first of these pieces.

mmmmcccxlviii

Down As The Way Up

Memory can’t save

everything. Some
things that I used
to know can, perhaps,

never be known again.
Like being sexy, or con
fidently flirty. [I hear
a collective sigh?]

But imagine my dis
appointment. I think
to myself, This should
not be the case. But

that I let you take
these things away
from me, that’s the
hell of it all. Imagine

your surprise when,
all these years later,
I refuse to blame my
self, blame you. These

rare moments when
I give in, blame my
self, utterly, are the
worst possible. This

should not be the case.
Thieves of the soul,

all of you. I was not
born to play this part.

A Feeble Attempt

mmmmcccxlvii

The Plunger’s Pucker

what am I doing?
reading doesn’t help.
i’m pretty sure that
talking about it doesn’t
exactly
resolve anything either. what
’s gotten into me? my head
spins until i’m exhausted. this

blank screen, my lovely,
lonely notebook. were i to
outright give into this
chokehold i’d assuredly
kick the proverbial bucket.

mmmmcccxlvi

Paper Pumpkins

Woke up from a dream
of being strangled. I
stretch myself out as
long as I possibly

can. Hold myself at
that length, slowly
untangle from the
deep of the night

and worry if this
is as far as it goes.
Craving curry,
I give up, boil a

pot of spaghetti
at 4 in the morning.

mmmmcccxlv

Left Wanting

Were the days
now, and the
words that
would fill
them and
later, if memory
would even serve,
would be used to
prop them up or
hold on to them,
which was no
longer fun or
rarely used
for anything
but kvetching,
a complaint
against them,
one by one.
And gone
as well were
most if not all
of each hour
of each night.
Although
he couldn’t
really say
the same
about the
hours that
he slept. He’d
long ago become
so exhausted that
dreams were all
but lost upon
awakening.
Gone were
those allur
ing chimes
that beckoned
him toward and
then into each
potentially
upending
slumber;
the chaos
of impending
dreams had
given way
to the
tiring
dread
of day.

mmmmcccxliv

An Actor’s Shame

He was a performer
first and foremost.

But he strutted and
fretted with such

sincerity. Forget
but do not forget also

the intensity hewn
with a constant

through line of
anxiety, and you’ve

got the sort of life
a tombstone could

with pride announce
to its random and,

he’d hope a little,
not so random,

passers-by.
Which stunk.

He knew that.
Just as he most

always could close
his eyes and see

before him the
chaotic swoops

and swerves of
the story’s plot.

mmmmcccxliii

Comprehension

My experience is
only mine. If you
told me that you
wonder and even

worry about how
the things you
remember, say,
collectively, with,

I don’t know, any
group of people
who maybe were
there when you

experienced a
thing...about
how soon there
will be nothing

like that thing
remembered,
collectively,
singularly,

that it will
quite possibly
even be less
significant

than that,
your mem
ory, whether
shared with

others
in some
way...

or not....

mmmmcccxlii

Unashamed

Sometimes I feel like I
Know where I’ve been. Who
I am. Where I am
Not supposed to be. And every

     So often. Like now. As I
     Kneel here next to my bed, peering
     Into the shadows beneath it,
     Not able to discern a solid thing,
     Neither my wallet, my brand new
     Eyeglasses, my new headphones nor my 

     Driver’s license. All are lost, like my housekeys. Like me.

mmmmcccxli

Social Discomfort

Get over yourself!
Ours is the best product in
Some time. Be resilient.
Socially network.
I always find ways to talk about myself.
Pen in hand, you look very appetizing.

      God, I hate this!
      One minute, everything
      Seems to work, the next minute, it’s all
      Sex, sex, sex!
      I’ve had enough of this nonsense.
      Perhaps I should give you a key to my apartment.

mmmmcccxl

Eight Months Underground

i get my exercise of late by
going for a daily swim in a
pool of disappearances. to

forget your gift: communication.
be it in plain-speak; layman’s
terms. academic. or both.

seeing the light at the end
of a tunnel and comparing
that to near-death experiences.

like i said, i’m not dead.
holding on to hope after
the summer fog evaporates.

how many times must 2 x 2
x 2 equal dated, equal late,
equal no dates, start with an

infernal earthquake. go back
to jack. get out the frank, the
frankly giving of a damn. grab

the real man and exercise that
plan. hail fortitude. trade in
the house with its foundation

of fog that you were thrown
like a bowling ball down
from the bleeding edge of

our fair city’s steepest incline
to roll and all but dead into
a breezy summer fortress.

no more four more years
minus one, minus one,
minus one, minus one.

get back at zero by starting
to pile it on, this walking,
running, never digging

ever again. and then.
inhale more (recover)
denser oxygen, ex

the memory of the
shovel, then throw up
his godforsaken pitchfork.

rise from all fours until up
right. and now you’ve tipped
that dumb-ass cow of time.

mmmmcccxxxix

That’ll Never Do

My house is not
a spouse. My
bed is not a
head. This

sink could
never fill
up to the
tall glass

of water
I’d rather
see before
me. I pilfer

this closet
floor, shoe
after shoe
after

shoe—and
still can’t
in this
shifty

palace
find one
single precious
piece of you.

mmmmcccxxxviii

This Ought to Help

He reaches into his
back pocket and pulls
out something.  Un
beknownst to his

audience, who could
not begin to even
glimpse that he held
something in his hand.

As it turned out,
what he had pulled

from practically 

right out of his

butt, about which the 

crowd had no clue 

(and never did) was 

the magician’s sense

of humor. What be
came clear was
that the spectators
were bored to tears

or else, as a few of
them would by the
final act be,
to death.

mmmmcccxxxvii

Pinning Hope and Humor
on a Trove of Delusions

I have found that I am
all too inclined to believe
people. Despite all my
talk of skepticism and

being clear with myself
and with anyone who
cares to listen about
the easy fact that

everyone of us is
practically tied up
into knots within
a web of heresy.

That part I’m okay
with. How could
it not be this way?
In the rulebook of

life (to make things
just that much more
for reals, try picking
up a book of etiquette),

there are lies on every
other page. And inst
ructions for the endless
ways we need to pre

varicate on every
other. Thusly the
ties that bind begin
to come undone until

I find myself so out of
sorts, desperate for
honest human en
gagement, were it

to exist. I’d take
it just about however
I could get it, during
these, the most anxious

and self-annihilating times.
And so I reach out. And
I wait. And then I keep
reaching. And wait some

more. Sometimes this
goes on seemingly forever.
And then misguided hope
arrives, the bait has been

taken, and for whatever
reason you find you’ve
got a reaction, a real
human interaction.

Or so you think.
I get so blindsided
by these short inter
ruptions of silence.

They are most often
vague with a hint of
scolding, confusing
as a spanking for

something done
by a sibling. Poor
innocent me. But
within such responses

to my desperation there
always seems a thing
or two to which I cling,
until the words get

played within my
fogged up dust-
head for some
long weeks or

months. With
nothing else
coming from
that general

direction, no
more words.
Just the fact
that with in

evitability
must be
faced when
delusions are

not an option
(but aren’t they
always?): those
gems to which

I clung were
merely rhine
stones. A single
promise can’t be

found within the
invalidity of the
long-distant words
from whomever.

The more that
time unfolds
the more that’s
clear, there’s

nothing realer than
that most humans,
in the end, but
willingly and

without a
seeming tinge
of regret, will
almost always

disappear.
The problem
is all me, you
see, these

lessons teach,
one by one
until at last
I am an

inconsistent
blur of shadow
and uncertainty
and altogether

human-free.
And yet, I,
like some
untarnished

idiot, can never
quite extinguish
these last remain
ing dregs of hope.

mmmmcccxxvi

Customer Satisfaction Survey

How has the development
of maturity evolved over the
years? I’m asking whether or
not it has aged well. In the

Darwinian sense. One punch
line after another and eventually
not only does the reader fail to
buy into any of it, but this line

punches him right into the gut
and when he’s hurled over the
next bloodies his little button
nose. Reeling, he kicks the

book like a field goal into the
horizon’s pablum. Then what
becomes So what. Scoring ain’t
what it used to be. Now even the

thought of a bowl of alphabet soup
makes him sick to his stomach.

mmmmcccxxv

leaning

he got real intense,
leaned over and
practically into
the website....

gripping a cane
with his mottled
right hand, the
old man watched

another coming
at him with a tall
face divided in
half by a long

smile, arms
bent down to
a walker—two
broken hips

passing in
broad day
light....
holding

two overdue
invoices
in his left
hand, herc

ules was
doing his
damnedest
to navigate

the website
—disputed
documents
dot com—

without ask
ing anyone for
assistance....
in the middle

of the assisted
living center’s
luncheonette
-esque dining

hall stood a
bright red
boombox
blaring

bill withers’
lean on me....
charlie had
a wide circle

of friends.
when he died,
each of them
knew that

they now had
no one upon
whom they
could rely.

mmmmcccxxiv

Hello, Western Union?

Should I reactivate
August 1st? One
can only honk a horn
for so long before
bleeding to death.

mmmmcccxxiii

the email address for heaven?

take me back to
simpler days. the
days when corrup
tion was on the

down low. when
we’d watch the
good wife and
not the good

fight. ‘what
does it matter
that we’re a
country of laws

if the laws aren’t
just,’ over-enunci
ates an exasperated
diane lockhart via

the legendary
christine baranski
before our hero
takes a break

from reality,
succumbs to
microdosing
for an ecstatic

ally jaw-drop
ping duration.

mmmmcccxxii

14 or 15

I swear I had a plan.
That rare venom, a
dozen or so lines sewn
indivisibly onto the out

ers of my innards. And
at work the ladies give
themselves away in the
most amazing ways. How

to pretend the office is
abuzz, humming a pre-
quake brainstorm. The
men’s upper lips doinked

up and down while, like
puppets, their lower lips
stood as still as the rim 

of this godforsaken canyon.

mmmmcccxxi

How Not to Be Bitter

first thought, best thought.
no judgment. keep self in
check (self-worth, self-es
teem, self-effacement, no

self-loathing, no self-agg
randizement). do this all
with an open mind that
ably accepts criticism.

heart crit. need i say only
from good hearts? are
there bad ones? last re
search i conducted, living

well, much less nicely,
wasn’t automatic, yet 

required about as much
heart as being utterly

malicious. with wisdom
you’ll know the difference.
allow your values to shift.
invite karma. live object

ively, but with conviction.
and be transparent?  tran

sported? which shifts an en

emy’s aim, or any scoundrel’s, 

seeing right through you 

might well inspire the red 

hounds of hell to sniff out 

cloaks of invisibility. but 

being self-righteous burns.

oh, but there’s a point to
being right. but that does

n’t mean you have to err

on the side of caution.
unless a cautionary
tale is your nirvana.
the path to victory

is a river of blood.
bright red ego.
i don’t know.
always keep

a thing or
two up
your
sleeve.

the element
of surprise
leaves a
terrible

impression.
but—what a
conundrum—
gets curious

cats either
curiouser
or else just
plain killed.

mmmmcccxx

Glitter-laden FedEx Employee

The laptop I’ve named
Algae is in the bottom
left drawer next to a
blue handkerchief and

a signed photograph
of Tim Conway. It
resides in an eerie
box, mostly given

all of the glitter,
but needless to
say, glitter not
withstanding,

swear to god it’s
ready to go to Jack.

mmmmcccxix

Luck of the Draw

lots of people
have bad experi
ences some of
the time. know
ing no differently,
perhaps they ass
ume this is just
a characteristic
of being human.
the human con
dition. or just
conditioning.
some might
think this is
just the way
it is. we gen
erally are
blessed with
a larger amount
of good luck, while
occasionally exper
iencing some un
fortunate events
or time periods.
do you know any
one at all who only
ever has good luck?
or only ever has
bad luck? i have
lived a life that
can be most
easily described
as abundant, filled
with good stuff,
inundated with
it, even. up
until i turned
around forty-
five, i’d say.
ever since
then i say
i jive with
a separate
group, which
are those for

whom bad luck

seems the over

whelming norm. 

as fair or as
even-handed as
that may sound,
taking my life as
a whole, i can
assert with con
viction that this
new phase really
pisses me off.

mmmmcccxviii

Strobe Light Special

tonight i want to
read up on the
whole strobe lights
causing seizures for

people with epilepsy
thing. i have seen,
to the best of my
knowledge, two per

sons have seizures in
my presence. when
i describe these events
to my best friend he

says it sounds like they
were stimming, and his
tone comes across as if
he is describing a pleas

ant walk through the
garden of eden. my
instinct says nothing
could be further from

the truth. there’s
also the notion
that’s stuck inside
of me that seizures

usually involve hard
and/or illicit drugs.
in my aforementioned
experience, drugs were

definitely involved in at
least 50% of the times
in which i witnessed a
person have a seizure.

mmmmcccxvii

The Winter Months

are hard to be distinguished
from all of the other months.

sometimes around here they
are perceived neither warmer

nor cooler than the same
duration of summer months.

what’s more, the autumn and
the spring, while often celeb

rated with gusto in various
ways, more often than not

seem to have no discernible
differences from these seasons,

or even from each other, as
well. there was a bag of

truffles on the living room
coffee table. the coolest days

here are always my favorite.
i know a man who, when he

visits at that time, warms the
entire climate with his very

presence. which for me
could be horrible since i

despise heat and revile
any humidity that might

go along with that even
worse. all of this talk of

temperature is irrelevant,
however, since the afore

mentioned coolest days
are simply fonzarelli cool.

mmmmcccxvi

Brow-beaten

Sometimes do I
hit my forehead.
with the soft parts
of my clenched fists?

I do. I see this happen
to others occasionally –
either in reality or in the
various fictional avenues

of art and literature. Miri
am Margolyes eats an
onion and then pounds her
breasts using the finger-

faces of her fists like an
ape, a seemingly similar
feat to the brow-beating,
but I couldn’t begin to tell

(although I have my ideas)
which of these two boxing
styles are more painful.
Which is likely not the

point. I mean, the
real pain has already
occurred for one to
beat themself up so,

it surely seems to me.
Though in reality, the 

scene with Miriam 

might’ve only included 

the munching of 

the onion. I thought
of her breasts as
she seems rather

fond of showing them
off. I do hope all
of this furious bang
ing and beating

subsides soon,
however. As I’ve
no patience with pain
nor periods of duress.

mmmmcccxv

Skin-tight Rainbow

A palette with a bunch of
humps. A beanie of silk
atop each of the humps.

Atop the palette – a make-
shift mattress – there are
two men lying. Soon they

are writhing through the
humps with silk beanies,
all one hundred of them

(100 humps, 100 beanies),
their caps sewn together in
the manner of a 100-bos

omed bra worn as a slinky
dress that’s showing lots
of skin. This thoughts are

a soft of sex with styro

foam that drives you back
into my memory, the

one I built a wall around
just in case this might
eventually be attempted.

I keep at these things
as everyone else keeps
finding new ways for

me to disappear.