mmmmdlviii

More Colours (v)

are the embers
faint or are
the
embers still that bright
reddish-orange?

take some comfort in the
heat, of course.
embers are deadly, yes, they are

fire in one of its more resonant forms.
i’d say mediocre,
rather, but one must present a template of
example for whether we want to be pyro or protector.

mmmmdlvii

More Colours (iv)

now i wonder about quality. about
improvement with age. i’ve
gone through a few sets of these.
how for well over
twenty years i’ve been working on this

one project. a project
which, each night, i
lean further into, linger upon, wondering about the ridiculous.

mmmmdlvi

More Colours (iii)

i know what i think sometimes. the revolution,
now, almost at its nexus. it’s the most

terrible thing to be lying on the floor. to
hear with your very own
ears how

disgusting those without paychecks
are. while the
rich
keep getting richer.

mmmmdlv

More Colours (ii)

 energized by the mood of the family gathering,
 lawrence felt it was finally time to push the
 envelope and spill the beans about the entire
 prickly subject he’d been unable to bring up thus far.
“hey,” he’d stood up and started walking
 around as the rest of the family were interacting with each other,
 not paying attention in the least. realizing this, lawrence’s head spun, he was 

 teetering toward a breakdown as his uncle lay unconscious in the basement.

mmmmdliv

More Colours (i)

“ready, set, go!”
  ally thinks to herself before picking up her
  iphone. she dials. they’re waiting for her. she
  nods and begins to
  sell her experience.
  this goes
  on for about an hour. the next morning, she’s
“ready, set, go!”
  maybe. but, also, maybe not.

mmmmdliii

Do It Again

I said I was going to do
something else, so tired
I was of doing the same
thing over and over. Well,

here I am again in typical
repetitive mode. I wonder
how often I’ve said this very
same thing with completely

different words. I imagine
I’ve performed the selfsame
function utilizing alternative
choreography. As I lose cog

nizance, I wonder if tomorrow’s
sentient creatures already exist.

mmmmdlii

Identity

As a kid, I’d hope so desperately for preppy,
well aware that I didn’t have what it took:
money. There’d be ways to get away with it,
as I would find out inevitably. I never wanted

to be normal, though, or plain, and sought to
confuse the look with something off-kilter.
Which had me at times come across a bit
Elvis-y. Which was cool. Then uncool.

Before it got cool again, I hung out with goth
kids, wanting not to look like them, but instead
to sponge a bit of that punk attitude. Did anyone
notice? There were also the tattoo boys with their

ears and noses pierced. I so wanted ink or just one
hole, but portrayal is pretense and I’d be no wannabe.

mmmmdli

Some Partial Responses

Sometimes throwing up is not
not part of the answer. Listen
to Holding Out for a Hero (the
best part is when the guns

start going off toward the end
of the video) and once you are
thoroughly grossed out allow
the behind the scenes version

of the video of Bonnie Tyler’s
Total Eclipse of the Heart to
randomly play next. That’ll
really get your day going. Re

fuse to attend any funerals.
Celebrate life and the lives of
those lost alone while watching
the tide roll in and then roll out.

mmmmdl

Unprecedented

One might say without hyperbole
that each morning we manage to
wake up to begin another day, much
if not most—or, really, all of what

is experienced each hour of that
couple dozen hours, should we
make it through, is unprecedented.
As we cross the threshold of any
new moment we’re going through

something so unique it has not been
done before. There is such meaning,
poignancy we can take from each.
This routine can take on a normalcy,

in that it is so familiar, so constant.
And then, holy shit!, there was today.

mmmmdxlix

Diary Entry – No Way to Encapsulate via this Writing Method
(Hence, I Keep Writing The Whiplash Sonnets)

My step-father, Rick, unexpectedly died a week ago.
I didn’t go to the funeral, which was Monday, in Arkansas,
of course. There are so many reasons for this not going,
some I’d rather not list here now, but mainly I cannot afford

to. So, same as usual, the successful smarty-pants now can’t
even be at the funeral of his mother’s husband, so I make it about
me, about my insecurities. Sure, things are tough for me, too,
at the moment, with too many things I have to take care of here in

San Francisco. But now I worry about what’s going to happen with
Mom now that Rick is gone; Mom, who’s been ailing for decades,
cannot get around on her own, and Rick worked full time plus, so
that the bills were payed and he could help her around. Mom has

relatives who help, which gives comfort but does not rid the guilt.

A sonnet can’t tell this story well or at length so I keep them going.

mmmmdxlviii

Is What I’m Doing Whiplash?
What I’m Doing Causes Whiplash.
What Was I Doing? It Gave Me Whiplash.

When stuck inside a labyrinth, turn
what takes you over into nonsense—
one way out is via laughter. But laughter
is unpredictable and impossible to

elicit (without bias) predictably. Who
sees eye-to-eye? The vectors between
each of us always evolve and slope.
And with such shifting gradients, any

attempt at locking eyes with yours
gives my eyes spasms, causes gnarly
head[aches]trauma. So then what, be
elitist? Submit? Absolutely! Scrape

those bloody knees and elbows clean!
(I’m not quite sure if I am even joking.)

mmmmdxlvii

The Whiplash Sonnets

I feel ill-equipped to explain
what I’m doing here. Even and
especially if I had no constraints
whatsoever I would not feel com

fortable it would take forever and
in the end I’m pretty sure I’d be
saying nothing. While initially I
meant how these sonnets are

particular, different, specific, even

though I sonnet a lot. I do what I 

call sonnets, have made so many. 

But now I could be talking about

the whole thing, the entire project. 

Do I mean academically? Legitimacy.

mmmmdxlvi

Whiplash (part 2)

Exploring the possibility that I’m meta
phorically that I’m in a matter of speaking
(writing) expressing academic insecurity with
regard to what I do most every day and have

for over thirty years (splaying words as purported
lyrics) (and publicly) and versus (verses, ha!) (of
those lines stacked in totality) how many of them,
per page (let’s say virtually or otherwise) (no, let’s

not, that’d be aging myself) (I give too much away) 

are sonnets; and, well, what I infer if not with seem
ing confidence present as sonnets. Because, and,
yes. I have two academic degrees (while I dare not

speak for anyone else?) in disciplines one might call
poetry-adjacent. The impossibility of encapsulation.

mmmmdxlv

4:30am

Is this kind of positive energy
generational because I really
need it not to be I need it to
be more like evolution skips

a generation more like a rev
olution or something? His mind
is racing too fast and he knows
this he always knows this his

psychiatrist calls this pressured
speech only he’s not speaking to
anyone but himself in his head walk
ing home late yet again no so quiet so

dark sweaty gorgeous early from the
party his abso-favorite time of morning.

mmmmdxliv

Political Farts

How does the word crazy
fit into your vocabulary.
When Jerry married Mr.
Nomenclature, she had no

idea what she was in for.
Eleven seasons of Ms. Pro-
Nunciation. Take this test:
Are you an Archie or a Jug

head? I did. Mine came out
Egghead (tax credit!). Don’t
laugh now, class, because
next up, we’re all going to

learn how to bark like cows.
It’s called a reversal of fortune.

mmmmdxliii

The Gone Generation

Here be the Isn’t Enough Time Left
section. Making sonnets during
this era leaves heads spinning (if
interested; if not disinterested)

with ambiguity and incompletion.
At what is this bozo pointing
with such pretend precision?
ain’t anything that matters, bro.

The magnets moving civilization
in the generic direction of evolution
done broke. Ker-blam! Imagine
it that. You won’t make it to the

pop. Weasels of the hemisphere
unite to tip-toe final seismic tightwire.

mmmmdxlii

The Wrong Generation

The world’s coming to an end.
Or haven’t you heard? I’m only
stating the obvious, just a little
exposition to place us somewhere

around where we are. Don’t put
off until tomorrow what you can do
today is emblazoned over a socially
anxious media’s second cousin (act

ually first; was I attempting to in
crease the distance?). Symptom:
increased mesmerizing via infant
ilizing. That might be all we need

to know. Things get so damned hot
we’re finding it impossible to breathe.

mmmmdxli

The Last 72 Hours

Finished A Man on the Inside in nearly
record time – I never used to finish shows.
I either lost interest or refused to finish
them (getting slower and slower until I

just hit pause forever) if they were super-
fantastic. Started Killing Eve, finally – wow!
And Skeleton Crew, which literally soars thus
far. Canceled a trip abroad, sadly, due to a

family emergency. Lost a sibling (he’s still
alive, but is, in that final straw way, lost to
me) reaching out to him due to losing our
step-father (no longer alive). Text mess

ages bandying cardiac arrest, intubation,
anoxic, ICU and, lastly, tonight, extubation.

mmmmdxl

How To Get Unstuck

Urgently evaluate whether you’ve stepped into
mud, quicksand or swiftly-drying concrete. Either
way, use every ounce of energy until and unless
you’re two-thirds up your calves in whatever

wants you to die there. Before that, attempt
to remove the leg closest to what appears to be
the most solid ground (best if you can note and
utilize the last step you took to get here) and once

it is removed (if so) place it on that spot, by any
means. Before that, however, scream from the top
of your lungs: “Help!” “I’m sinking!” “Quicksand!”
and “I’m dying!” Do not wait for help. While struggling

to survive, pray hard to whatever higher power in
whom or which you might believe, should one exist.

mmmmdxxxix

Weird Time

Dumb little portals
of memory. Best
friends you’ve never
met. Boyfriends you’

very good looking. I
saw you there, sitting
at that desk, pencil-
tip to mouth. Or was

it eraser? Funny how
Erasure is a band. The
electricity in the brain
goes limp, hurtles; inside

the skull-cum-galaxy. The
people you really know.