mmmmcdlxxvii

Laughing Away the End of Times

Laughing away the end of times
might just work a while. Does
history stand with comedy?

Meanwhile, I take my pills.
Every morning. I check my
blood. Sugar and pressure.

I carry around additional pills;
eye drops, which I carry around
with me, as well; I scratch my

head, wondering what will be
come of me—also, it’s a nervous
habit. I call myself old as I get

older, not really knowing when
it’s right to say “I’m old,” yet
knowing each of these thoughts

could be my last. I tend not 

to focus too much on that, 
keeping it at the periphery 

of my mind, nonetheless. I’m
healthy, but don’t feel the health
iest. I wonder who looks at me

thinking he’s looking pretty grim,
lately, or of those that’ve never
seen me before, I just wonder

sometimes what they must think,
if anything. Relatively. Not out of
vanity so much, but out of a

desire to see who I might seem
to be by way of other eyes. I have
some ideas regarding who I am,

how healthy or unhealthy I might
be, but what do I know? I take
some comfort—that’s not exactly

the right word—out of the fact
that I’ve lived most of my life in
an intentional state of awareness,

of (semi-)focus, even, on ephemera
lity. I certainly don’t want to go,
not at all. Ah, mortality. At least

I sort of sail through the subject
as quickly as possible, so as not
to be overly burdened by it, while

keeping it in there.  Of more signific

ance is the time I spend on the subject 

of morality. And then I see a mouse

scuttle the short distance from
one wall of my living room,
my only room, to the other.

It is in this way that my
mind moves from one
subject to the next.

mmmmcdlxxvi

Gotta Be Grateful

This I tell myself when
life seems to be moving only
too slowly towards the goals
I’ve been toiling to achieve.

And it’s short and it’s finite,
this life, from this perspective.
But these thoughts don’t give
any joy or satisfaction, and

aren’t those the two most
important goals when it comes
to living? They certainly are
for me. So where does one go

in order to find a modicum of
each? One digs deep, I suppose,
measuring each tiny distance
of progress with a celebration,

for example. And then one gets
back to the work of getting it done.

mmmmcdlxxv

How to Make Pals of Impossibilities

How to understand the
un-understandable. Take
refuge in the not knowing?
Make up a reason that seems

logical (doesn’t have to be)?
Ignore it; avert its eyes; go
out of one’s way to even
encounter the explosion,

of such mysteries. Live
in denial. This may just
happen, unbeknownst, or
one might, with all but

intolerable discipline,
work on its disappearance
from all of the mind’s vast
catalog until poof! it’s gone.

mmmmcdlxxiv

Interview with John Oliver
(Good Old-Fashioned Journalism)

That interview with John Oliver
in the NYTimes I watched early
this afternoon. Watching a news
paper on my laptop as if it were

a sitcom on a television set.
The Media of My Youth, starring
new anchors John Chancellor,
Walter Cronkite, Dan Rather,

Tom Brokaw, can’t count Barbara
Walters, but she sure made the
stars cry (that’s entertainment).
Maybe Connie Chung? How

the interviewer kept trying
to get Oliver to fess up to
working within the profession.
Of journalism. How he would

always object, in that absolute
yet half-hearted way, that he
was a comedian, that this was
his way to that thing he loved

more than anything, laughter
and cultivation, civility and
refinement: Comedy. There
was an afterward. She called

him after the interview, which was
tacked onto the end of the filmed
version, which ran audio only, with
a black and white still of a very-

serious-looking Oliver, in which he
revealed a key to his reticence when
it came to suggesting that in any
way he was practicing the same

profession as her. “I’m British,”
and he reminded how his pre
decessors had made a mess of
things in their attempts at lay

ing down the law of right and
wrong, shoving those rules to
the ends of the world in such
catastrophically unethical ways.

Which also surely had something
to do with his insistence on getting
each story true, thoroughly fact-

checking; veracity being of utmost

importance. And with such humility
we are presented with in-depth
news. Once a week on Max,
formerly HBO, when in season.

mmmmcdlxxiii

The Sum of These Parts

What am I to do with this
secret, buried as it is in my
cash withdrawals? This
afternoon, upon hearing

a clipped facsimile of that
well-regarded quote by
Kurt Vonnegut^*, as if astral
projecting, my life shot back

to that moment when it
dawned on me that anyone
who knew me (and many who
did not) could read me like a

book, a fact that shook my
entire being such that I com
pletely covered myself beneath
a fiction—brooding, comfortable

splitting myself equally at
the conflicted ends of most
any spectrum and, while never
actually lying, choosing to

verbalize or act out parts
of me while omitting others
in such a way that I became
a man of my own invention.

Which is to say, of course,
that I became who I’d been
all along, who I’d become,
who I am now: 100% me.

*We are what we pretend to be, so we must be
  careful about what we pretend to be.

mmmmcdlxxii

Elegy

The lights over the Mississippi
get swallowed up each and all
by the river’s neighboring trees,
those forests the boat’s casino

swingers long ago forgot. The
trees, therefore aching deep
beneath each base’s rough
exterior, thanks to the deep-

tick rattle of the spun roulette
wheels and the ka-ching!
ka-ching!! ka-ching-ing that
had emanated so endlessly

from each of these boats
with outstretched boughs,
downed the bitter little pills
of twilit light and, moment

arily, their souls were
soothed. But from that point
on, the sky was as dark as
within a freshly covered

grave, each riverboat patron’s
head bowed low to the ground
where it stayed, each gambler’s
heart slowed by half and the

rattling roulettes and the slot
machine’s ka-chings went silent
as the boats floated noiselessly
over a crude-oil river cutting

an otherwise glorious land
and its clueless, oafish
population into utterly
irreconcilable halves.

mmmmcdlxxi

A Few Notes on the Videos
(meanderings that are far too incomplete)

There’s a vastly more significant chance
that one will find its way into a stranger’s
algorithm if the recording is less than a
minute long. It’s an additional way for me

to showcase work of which I’m quite proud,
with which I’ve been playing and messing
around for over two decades now. During 

which, especially due to circumstances 

mostly beyond my control, this socially awk
ward extrovert has collapsed into a hermit for
over a decade now. It’s been a way to wave
violently in all directions, attempting to get my

voice to those of you it reaches, saying vehemently,
“I am here.” Using two points in my own life, working
in chronological order, it’s a way for me to tell my
story personally, to explain who I am, and offer

some fun, some humor, some wisdom (he humbly
writes), some fiction based on these two
points in time, and this helps me grow, is
something, again, of which I’m quite proud,

and I can see the results, can point to them.
It is a bunch of stuff I can point to and say
“I did this” and “This is me” and “I make
mistakes” and “Aren’t I clever?” It’s me,

me, me. Unabashedly. But I try to say some
thing. And more than anything, it’s a method of

engagement (and while part hasn’t worked so well

quite yet, I continue to work hard on that goal, too).

mmmmcdlxx

Be Nice and Stop Murdering

Simply cannot fathom what would make
these, the most essential rules of thumb,
need to ever be broadcast in the first
place. Even if saying such things were

ever necessary, and were written into
a general book of rules, say in stone,
when people were relative newcomers
to the scene, I mean. But just think,

and we, supposedly evolved creatures,
that is if evolution turns men into monsters,
and perhaps that’s all we ever were, here
I am, by no means the brightest bulb on the

planet, certainly nobody of any authority,
saying it here: Stop all the meanness!
There isn’t one of us better than any other.
We all have not-so-great days. But how do

you solve a problem like murder? Incessant
death by the hands of others. And look,
we’ve evolved in such ways that we needn’t
even use our hands. It’s the most depressing

and disgusting thing, and don’t get me started,
there are plenty of such, but murder? Stop it!
Do I really need an argument in defense of such
logic? I think my demand is clear enough. What

a world it would be if you’d just heed my word
and do as I say. I’m not looking to win a debate,
just appeal to logic, to common sense. Or are
those just myths? The times might say so. The

Times might reiterate. But I disagree. Inflict no
intentional pain. End foul play. Play nice. And
don’t kill anybody. Can you hear? Am I clear?
I’ll trust that you’ll abide. Or I suppose I won’t.

Just give me a holler if you’ve the urge to step
over and into the dark side. (There, I tried.)

mmmmcdlxix

Things That May Cause Panic

I’m that guy who always
wants to preface these
things by mentioning that
this isn’t a cry for help.
But don’t most of us cry
on some sort of regular
basis? I can’t begin to tell
you just how much I am loving
the new season of ___________.
Or that new show, what’s it called,
_______? I watch stand-up comedy
specials quite often and laugh so 

hard that I cry. (I imagine one cannot 
generally tell the difference between
when I am meandering or when in my
mind I’m weaving my way to some
logical point.) But last night I watched
_______________, and it wasn’t
funny at all. In fact, I found it
harsh. Everyone has a different
harsh barometer, right? Do you
ever think about what that device
might tell you about a person? I do.

Let’s say you are a member of one of 

the generations that won’t allow you to
publicly (and/or I do more than wonder,

privately) pigeonhole but that barometer, 

working as it does to build a forecast—can 

most of us agree on this?—will provide

hints. In dangerous times, a hint
might be all you need, could be
all you get. I’ve no idea why I
dwell on such things because
I’d never use it to run like
hell, to do the Darwinian
thing. Although there are
things that make me jump.
And when I do it’s hard to
narrate what is going on in
my head, or else it’s scaredy-

cat easy.  There is no life flashing 

before my eyes, something I save 

for more private or quiet times, like 

this one, but instead I do think this 

is it!, and I’ve had many such

fight or flight moments. These
seem to usually involve one
of the following: very loud
noises, physical instability
such as the movement of
the floor or ground beneath
me or a faint-headed dizziness,
or the sensation that I’m having
a heart-attack, am all but critically
certain of it. By the way, every time 

I have experienced that last one 

it has turned out to 100% be
indigestion.

mmmmcdlxviii

I Am Not My Country

Is a joke I tell myself
because I have a funny
sense of humor. Is that
not the explanation you

expected? Not my country
is the stand-up routine I
do with my friends. They
laugh all serious-like be

cause they know me. Ya
know? Sure you do, citizen
ry, audience, cast and story.
That’s plot and whatnot.

Welcome to my house. I
live here (do I ever?!). A
home, they say, reveals 

a lot about those within

which cozy, its homies.
Look around. Scrutinize.
Tell me who I am from
where I happen to live.

Where I choose to be.
Haha. The husk that’s
left of me is so at home,
so lucky are we to be here.

Oh, dear, the tour’s almost
over. Have you seen my
bedroom, its vanity, look,
see, that’s me. But I am

not my country. Nor are
any of my pals, each of
whom left me for other
countries. Other currencies.

Read Me Like a Book
(It Goes Without Saying)

mmmmcdlxvii

The Apathy Conundrum

Hey, Dum Dum! What if your
problem isn’t that you’re simply
being terribly misunderstood?

What if the riddle of the
disappearing humans...?
Come on, it’s not like this

is a revelation. Oh, honey.
Already realizing it’s not a
hole that you’re itching to

dive into...? And, no, that’s
a river you’d really prefer
not to ride (da Nile). So

buck up, Dunderhead! It’s
even worse than that, and
you know it. “Don’t I ever!”

Hush, now. Was apathy ever
born from empathy? It’s time
to sleep. A hermit’s nightmares

are filled with his people, long gone:
never givers, takers all. He drinks a
toast to conspiratorial concoctions

like family. To those on the spectrum
from handshakes to high fives to tightly-
squeezed hugs. Here’s to the ones who

never loved back. The invisible defenders
who show up every night, long after he’s
closed his eyes, only to disappear after

the curtain call that abruptly comes
once another night’s sleep gives way
to the reality of day; the cycle of a man

who wakes up, finds himself alone, sees
who he’s become. It’s a remake, a sequel,
the whole franchise of a nobody. This, each

morning, on repeat: again and again he feels him
self unravel, becoming more and more undone, 

this poor man who’s always as good as done.

mmmmcdlxvi

Stranded.

There’s not even anyone here
to vote me off. Our fear of being
voted off and our despair at the
very idea. Oh, democracy. I

am just a popularity contest.
Take that to heart for just a
moment. Now remove all of
the humans. Think of everyone

who slept their way to the top.
Sure, dwell on that a bit, it’s a
fancy meal compared with the
inevitability. It has to have been

so many people. Can’t stay too
long in that fantasy though. It’s
getting dark. Time to get busy
with that plan on how you’re

going to stir the masses, have to
build that consensus. Assess the
population (the vermin, the insects,
the swaying palms), but quickly.

Introduce yourself to the neighbors,
brutal as it sounds, before it’s too late.

mmmmcdlxv

Aspic.

     More morbid mongrels munching
                                   —John Ashbery

“Who didn’t order a gluten-free bagel?”
The chimp who’d eaten four of them
pretended he couldn’t speak English.
It was late-summer Tucson, exactly

as you’d imagine it. The sky was
overly-blue, and no one was shivering
about it. Our little girl’s tiny claws had
hooked themselves into a banana, each

dad pointing at the other with a full-on
“His fault!” face. Meanwhile on the
Mississippi, the Patron Saint of Gambling’s
smoker’s cough dwindles, only slightly

interrupting the whir and ka-ching of the
long row of slot machines that patrol the river.

mmmmcdlxiv

The Swamp.

The barstool intellectuals cozy up
to the ne’er-do-wells on the bar
stools of this misbegotten city that
is the subject of our present hope.

Elsewhere, they’re shooting up
in the alley that will too soon
become a mall. The subject
of me finds himself in a state

of mock shock, having happened
upon the future shopping center.
Sidelong glances whiz back and
forth between the margarita

surfaces and the bleared eyes of
those up with whom we cozy.

mmmmcdlxiii

On a Scale from Picturesque to Monotony

I’d say we’re about three balls
below the need for a memory.
The illusion of lights in the dis
tance are boring. Depressing,

even. You can’t take snapshots
of those. Squirming around, as
I do, under the covers, singularly,
I might add, I try my damnedest

to remember a time that was off
the beaten path, even barely. This
rings a bell. I used to hike in real
places with long drawn-out vistas

and moss and terrain so intense
the fog couldn’t scribble it away.

mmmmcdlxii

Broken Lyric.

Watching a clip from YouTube
at 5:07am Sunday I think
this is it, I’m having a heart
attack. The thing is, I’ve had

several. They’ve always been
gas before, but that doesn’t
always rein in the panic. At
Fabulosa yesterday evening

I purchased two books of
poetry. One by an old friend.
The other by someone an old
friend recommended. Long

ago. Laundry, over which a
roach crawls, soaks in my sink.

mmmmcdlxi

Life.

I’ve been alive for a lot
of stuff. And then there
are the other things that 

I haven’t been alive for.

mmmmcdlx

The Sun Aims for Sunny

Like a dandy. But the fog lingers.
I finger my invisible drink, imagining
I’m testing the temperature of a pool
before diving in, or perhaps it is a bit

more like slowly dipping a toe into fresh
bathwater. I’m aiming more for funny
than raucous (I think?) as I lift a wet
finger and clear my throat. “Waiter,

there’s a fly over here that’s come un
done.” The poor guy, somebody’s son,
does quite well at his attempt to roll with
the punches without coming across the

least bit flirtatious. “Too bad, so sad!” I
think, pouring out my imaginary drink.

mmmmcdlix

A couple walks by, 3pm. I
follow them a moment with
my eyes and, unable to resist
as they play at bickering, with

my neck, so, okay, I’m staring,
rolling my eyes a bit as they
disappear over the hill. I’m
thinking couples, hmph! It is

a feeble attempt at being a
little bitter and it doesn’t last
long, comes across to me as
fake. Later, though, in bed by

around 8:30, not sleeping yet,
of course, my mind does its
thing. Surely it’s my neck that
is the culprit, the rememberer,

craning as it did earlier in the
afternoon, but I’m filled for a
few—I could say tortured, but
I’d be kidding—minutes or so

with a discerning nostalgia,
greedy memories, mostly of
the succulent tactility of spoon
ing, how tangible, as the sec

ond hand ticks (the memory
mixed with the sounds of some
one’s wristwatch, but whose?).
How each tick from the timepiece

moves the titillating connect
ivity of the surfaces of skin
that have found themselves
smushed onto the surfaces

of someone else’s heats
inevitably into an uncom
fortable sweat until that
couple, one of them you,

sleeps, perhaps soundly,
snoring at the edges of the
bed, that oblong stretch of
space, a vacuum, between.

mmmmcdlviii

Domesticated & Roasted

I couldn’t laugh then. For
months afterwards, anyone
who believed they had known
me in the slightest would catch

my eye for long enough to con
vey disbelief and disdain before
moving on to wherever they
thought they were going. I’m

no Cassandra, but who nom
inated me to be the one person
in the room who could see the
future. Little did I know that

they had all one-upped me,
each having dispensed with
their sobriety weeks or even
months earlier, they had all

peered into the same future
that only now I could glimpse.

mmmmcdlvii

The End of an Era

Back then, wanting to live long enough
was so easy-peasy; so rosy-dozie. But
when it was proclaimed resolutely on
today’s teevee that it was the end of
an era, and this was furthermore done
in a giddy fashion seemed to have the
studio audience just as giddy in return,
I sure didn’t believe it. I had known an
era or two. And they had ended. And
I’d been in denial afterwards for years.
When the scientists who measured
such things committed suicide, we
had absolutely no way of knowing
what an era even was. Or is. We
just knew from our own experiences
that it was not a pretty thing, this
era ending. So, despite all of the
proclamations, those confident
announcements, I didn’t believe
a word of it. “This era will end
with the apocalypse,” I told my
pal Farrah, who, despite her name
was very 21st Century. “Lighten up,
Dude!” she said. It seemed like her
favorite thing to say to me. And it
was obvious that she was annoyed.
She was already on that end of an
era bandwagon. I felt a sudden
twinge of nostalgia and, truth be
told, a rather extreme desire, more
than just a resigned readiness, to
welcome that apocalypse with the
widest grin I could muster, which
would be a small representation of
my likewise overly outstretched
arms, held in such a way that
revealed how craven they were
for the tightest embrace they’d
ever known. “That’s just way
too much,” thought a willing
yet sorely disappointed Farrah.

mmmmcdlvi

Ponderings & Educated Guesses
(yet another interlude)

Back then I wanted to live long enough
to tell the stories of what I had no way
to put into words, because it was also
impossible to float somewhere outside

of myself in order to see what people
like to call the “big picture” of what
is going on, of how sick I’d become.
How emotionally—how mentally—ill.

It was a pre-pandemic deterioration
the worst of which I can now say
occurred before I was literally kicked
out on my ass. Kicked to the curb then

wait what turns out to be this extraordinarily
long duration and then kicked out into the 

elements.  The worst had already happened 

by the time I got to the second part, being

literally removed from my home, and the 

trauma (I would like it to be understood

that I do not take that word lightly) that 

would accompany it, until I realized (even 

considerably after this less harrowing set of 

events began to occur) my memory, that 

dried up orange wedge that had always already 

made retrospection something so unlike, that 

seemed so seductively distinct, that I had taken 

to saying I write to remember...and...that’s why I 

take photographs, too, had begun to malfunction, 

just as it does for those whose memories are normal. 

And I had already been weaving these facsimiles

together for a decade, into what has evolved into

this particular project, which, since that time which 

I call the worst of it, years before the pandemic, 

dozens of months before losing my home of 

nearly thirteen years, I’ve spent yet another

near decade building this quilt made of me, 

all slapdash, wherein I can dive into at what

ever point, if for no other reason than the 

fundamental one of understanding illness 

as I never had, of the incredibly long process 

of healing, and the physical deterioration of 

simply living that can go on in simultaneity. 

One comes of age. One experiences tragedy, 

one gets sick and (at least in this case) even

tually heals, slowly, is always healing. And at 

the same time, one     —usually completely un

aware of the pace, much less that ALL OF THIS 

is ever happening, it is all so significant, it is always,

yet, indefinitely, meaning, also, infinitely for you,

me, the one who is involved, the victim(?), albeit 

finitely, in the whole grand scheme of things,

perhaps, or, in theory, because one can 

never truly know—     is dying.

mmmmcdlv

The Politics of Memory

     Woe to those homeless who are out on this night.
                                            —John Wieners

When did acts of youth
become so geriatric? In
the beginning. The tricks
the decades play. If only

we could have them all back
but for a singular solitary day.

mmmmcdliv

Oil of Dew

     Are there going to be summer suckers?
                                   —John Ashbery

It’s been ten years
and the sun ain’t.

You know how when
you get sand in your

shoes? Didn’t pack
right. Need shop

ping but can’t in
this blistering sun,

the waves going
lap, the waves

going lap. but I
told you so. X

that out, maybe
it was you that

told me. This
sweltering. The

waves that don’t
go lap lap. The

toes (the sand
between them)

that don’t go
tap tap. This

rolling over.
This beach.

This beach
ain’t nude

and the sun
is rude to you.

So you roll.
You try to

just roll
with it.

roll over
until you

are up
and your

eyes to the
sun at two

in the after
noon. Too

many years
of the same

heat pressing,
the castles of

sand melting
and you burn,

unable as you
are to bronze.

Skin sense
tive to the

lap to the
lap until

you are
dry, dried

up, all
tapped.

If only
you’d an

ounce
more

sap. To
roll like

the body
within, that

burnt-out
lust, your

skin a crisp
and gritty

crust. But
your eyes

from the
hole in the

beach as
you lift

with your
all. Alone

as you are.
Just you here

you are. No

thing but

old dust.
The castles.

Not even
a moat,

its re
tract

able
bridge.

Every
thing’s

gone
but

the
dried-up

desert hyp
notic land

scaped the
wind-razed

castles of
dust the

dust.

mmmmcdliii

The Lava Story

It’s Friday, ya know?
I wake up real slow.
Look around, no mouse.
Look some more, no
spouse. If I were there
and he were here, what
would I call the ocean,
dear? Since this is just
asking myself, I answer.
It’s not lava, I suspect.
And me being me,
having just woken up,
do as I do no matter
who’d be here (with
the only invariable:
that I’d have to be)—
and that’s the same
damned thing I’ve
surely done some
three or four times
since slipping away
from yesterday for a
few scattered, conked-
out, snore-laden fever-
like dreams—which is,
I excuse myself and
I hobble slowly over
to the lavatory for
that momentary
relief. Then I
shake it off.
But before
heading all
the way back
I pause for a
moment at
the sink,
look my
self into the
mirror and
mutter aloud:
Welcome back.
Happy Friday.
And then back
to the bed I go.

mmmmcdlii

When I’m Close to You

What did I miss? Holding your
hand as we walk down the avenue.
Your fingers, cold as heavy metal,
sort of melt within the grasp of mine,

like they’re slathered with butter. We
don’t even notice as the streetlamps
start to pop at dusk, dark settling
over the fog. Do you think we’ll

make it to the dunes by midnight?
We get there, it must be ten o’clock,
the water like ice, the bonfire built
but unlit. Where has everyone gone

off to? Nothing phases you. “I have a
lighter in my pocket.” With his oil-cooled
fingers, he leads my hand right to it.

mmmmcdli

A Smug, Hard-Working Sonnet

     Hard work is my professional brand.
               —paraphrasing Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson

I have considerable experience with
post hole diggers; fence building.
Also with putting nubbins of cheese
into mousetraps. I get distracted

quite easily. A mouse and a roach
walk into a tiny coffin-sized hotbox
of a bar and refuse to order drinks,
terrorize the employees and clientele. 

When business is at its calmest you 

might see me running around like a 

chicken with my head cut off. I’ve never 

axed a head off of anything, nor wrung 

a single neck. It’s that protestant work
ethic; the Adderall of my generation.

mmmmcdl

When I’m Far from You

Feel this. You know how
people say he’s right here
in my heart? It’s bogus.
There’s so much distance.

Traditionally the bride and
the groom do not see each
other on their wedding day.
All the loved ones take a

seat. You know how when
you go bowling the next day
your fingers all feel so bruised
from having them in each of

those holes, carrying that
heaviness? I don’t believe
in distance. I also don’t
think there’s such a thing

as astral projection. Never
underestimate the power
of touch, of course, but
when I say I feel you here

even though you are clearly
there...aren’t you? If there’s
a ghost of love then you tell
it that I’m not haunted. I am.

mmmmcdxlix

Stan’s Overused Volume of Amy Vanderbilt’s

     May I remind you that every sentence, everywhere,
     ends with a period?
                                                   —John Ashbery

“These are the rules. It’s
in the book, see? Have
you memorized every
page of it? Very good,

very good.” He pet his
pal like a dog for a mo
ment, then did a one
eighty, which happened

to have him point in the
exact direction of the
kitchen wastebasket.
Do you say wastebasket

or trashcan? What then
do you say? With book
in hand he marched
forward like a sweaty

band camp adolescent.
Until of course he reached
the aforementioned recept
acle. Into it the book went,

and rather viciously. Stan
watched his sweaty, red-
faced man as his hand came
up empty from the trashcan.

In awe of this Freudian scene,
Stan stood there for a while
filled with a frenzy of contra
dictory emotions like pride,

envy and an ever-expanding,
ball-burning love.

mmmmcdxlviii

They Say It Is Whatever You Make of It

What I am doing is easy to relay.
Who I am is not.

I’m sitting atop my bed, leaning
back against the back wall of my
tiny coffin-sized apartment. Only

it’s not a hot-box today. It’s cool,
lovely, and with my door open just

a bit, I feel the breeze against my
back. It whooshes over and under
the back flap of my left ear and surely

wends its way out the door, across the
hall and into my neighbor’s tiny room.

He’s playing a video game. It’s always
loud. I think he’s moved on from the
one in which he is racing cross-country

in a semi. No rumbling. No rough talk.
Instead I hear occasional instructions

(vague, indecipherable, but nevertheless
loud) of a spritely girl voice. She sounds
like Sakura from Naruto. Anyway, what

I’m doing. Is reading a book a purchased
(I do this when I can, which for a while
was a mournfully rare occurrence) on eBay.

It is by a friend. It’s the second time I
purchased it. (It wasn’t one I already

owned, one of the many lost when I
was 50, that old story, but) I bought a
copy from Amazon, one of those rare

occurrences because I was able to do so.
Apparently, shortly after it arrived, it was

either misplaced or stolen, something
that happens often down at the front
desk, where the mail comes in and

waits for me. Anyway, it is a book
from a friend, the second purchase of

said book. It is inscribed to someone
that isn’t me, this book written by a
friend, purchased twice. And I am

leaning back against the cool back
wall of my apartment reading it.

And it is good. Page after page of it,
I read, thinking of my friend, reveling
in its humor, the poignance of each piece.