mcdxliii

How do you move yourself
to a new location?

Try a hot dog.  Street vendors
are sexy.

Gossip with the urchins about
who got poked in the shower
this morning.  Denied.

Take a quiz about yourself.
Find out who you are.  Then
ask everyone if they agree.

Put rosemary in the bong
water.  Get something
done.  Buy an iPhone.

Start with one thing and
end with another.
Are you a bottom?

I like a sexy pose in
blue workout shorts.
Shout out for the tattoos.

Make more jokes about
donuts and more paintings
of your grocery lists.

Try again in a couple of
years with a sprained ankle.

Make out with a street
vendor.  Make out with
a hot dog.

The older you get, the more
difficult it is to make out
with tiny photographs.

mcdxlii

But, Alli, I don’t hold my sadness
in my armpit.

I like how we take each other so
seriously.  Like the Eucharist
or something.

It feels good today, though.
Honestly.  And living with
worrying about it comes
with the territory.

You had me in stitches,
I have to admit.  That
you’re one of three
sisters explains
everything.

The real loser, of course,
is Harry Potter. I’m
no philosopher
but I’d really
love to teach
that class.

mcdxli

Crook my arms into an extended shrug.

What was your crazy sex?  Opened the
table to draw some work onto it but
forgot work.  Maybe I was watching
it go in late one morning.  Watching
as it goes in.  Some like this trait.

Others are exhibitionists.  Still others,
boneheads.  I watch some porn that
does this, but I’ve never done it
personally.  The rain this morning
agrees.  Or digresses.  Do you want

to try me?  Okay, perhaps.  But let’s
first get beyond the shadows and
look square into the now.  Did
you purchase your magnifying
mirror, first? Okay.

I think all buses have beautiful
boys (and subways too). I
thought I was a loser at first.
But in fact I get a few responses.
Not just from old men either.

mcdxl

Make a list of the voices to dissipate a
headache. Something like counting
sheep. Appreciate the dissonance
which jogs focus. Logic, as ever,
prevails. Just to see the roof of
its mouth. Word word peanut
butter. But actually better,
because hunger dissipates
too.

It’s an expired link and
you just clicked it. Sour
orange juice, too bad.

What happens when you
dumb it down like bedsheets.
Bad signifier, but you know
what I mean. Another list that
puts you over the edge? Like
I like nonsense only better.

You joke but I once knew
someone like you. He
mowed a poet with a
huge front lawn
just to rub noses
with all its barbed wire.

mcdxxxix

I know nothing.

Load more guys for distant pleasure?
You are double-spaced and blend nicely
with your environment.  I’ve got to put
an end to it.  Tease the hole out of the
donut while shirking all responsibility.

Lawyers suck but you’ve got it made
in the shade.  You’re pronounced a-
bundance and ease of accomplishment.
You also confuse the hell out of me.
But I try, my amped-up confidence

and new lab coat.  When does it
become the importance?  Next
subject (and the hiccup in between):
Love.  And reload.  Melancholy
elsewhere isn’t the right word for it.

A strong hit in the north portion,
upper right quadrant.  Having a
headache for lunch (so last subject).
I mean are you schizophrenic?
No offense, I promise.

The houseboat dips as the
needle edges inward at midnight.

mcdxxxviii

His heart is an ocean that’s inside another ocean.
           —reporter Roxanne Ritchi, in the film Megamind

As if tossed at sea. Telling a face
I’m sorry I can’t lie to you. Can you
remember why you didn’t want to
say anything?

He is my boyfriend 22 years old
with layers that start peeling away.
Somebody told me I was a
back-up like Troy. The cute one.

I ask Ambiguous for help.
Don’t I ever? He responds with
a lesson on friendship and love
as seen in the latest installment of

Harry Potter. Am I the wise guy?
Am I Ron the dork? “Heart,”
he calls him. It’s the most
touching moment ever. “But

maybe Harry just has a hard-on,”
I suggest. “Perhaps he sees this as
his one window of opportunity.”
Everyone’s an air of disappointment.

mcdxxxvii

Hooray, no spam here.

His room is indeed a mess. Yet
here’s my love. Something indeed
so dark. I read a bunch of poems
about sex that aren’t sexy.

mcdxxxvi

I need to figure out these curtains.
Changed my mind about the bedroom

paint on flight toward Paris via London.
I’ll say it once.   [FROWN]

Produce a dream performance in bed.
Realize your fantasy as a sex god.

Somewhere in here I have the dates wrong.
Today is horny day.    It comes down

to just this.  And pecan pie.  And
maybe a beer under “Crazy Sky” –

which I didn’t catch, but Catherine did.
An old haunt with cute notes.

Twenty dollars to read a bit.  Some-
thing dark in my heart.

This is the real story.
—Idealist, naive, too distant sometimes.

mcdxxxv

You remind me I’m unfinished.
Come very close to calling things
off.  This childish out of my
mouth.  It gets to me after I’m
reassured glorious, e.g., getting
out of Arkansas or finally talking
Paris.  Who knew it was like this?
I mean I can’t remember the bad
stuff.  Or anything, mostly.  So I
set up a drink date at my place,
playing Cupid (or his lusty
little brother).  Back to the
28th floor.  Back to left-
overs and fiasco.  Watch
one more scary movie
for fake horror.

mcdxxxiv

He does it on purpose.  It will be
nice as I haven’t seen him since the
beginning of the year.  If you really
are from another planet then slap me.

This moment that begs for a moderate
pause.  Take me to your leader.  Take
me to the very beginning.  Come very
close to the back of my hands.

Calling things off out of crazy.  Page
after page to calm is worthless,
even the shades drawn with white
noise, Dad’s plant smashed into

the heater that never worked.  I’d
like to say go ahead and balk.  A
plan breaks in November under
Leonid the meteor shower.

mcdxxxiii

Vienna sausages, Hershey’s kisses
with almonds, and sushi.  For din-
ner.  Don’t be complacent, I guess.
My mind doesn’t feel the same,
says lobster, first time in 4 years,
just words.  And with chopsticks,
no less!  So many drinks to balance.
Turn on TV for soy sauce commercial.
Life gets weird, doesn’t it?  Drink a
glass of lemon wedge & go to bed.

mcdxxxii

Flea Bargain

The god of employment
looks down in shame as
the apartment decays.

Let’s go shopping at the
transplant boutique.
Let’s decide on a

neighborhood.
Close your eyes
to the rain and smell

grass wafting in through
the living room window.
The one replaced this summer.

Don’t be complacent.
Wear a tie to work.

mcdxxxi

Hot Pancake

The word is you’re going through a bad spell.
I love you in the kitchen but I’m jealous of
the kitchen.  Drop a book somewhere in
between us, like halfway.  Make a noise
in there.  Scratch or cluck, scrape a broad
brush over the canvas—a loud stroke.

I found paint supplies in most of the
kitchen cabinets.  Ease cock, the color of
tongue, onto the balance.  Hair drifts apart
but finds its thing.  All is inevitable.  Or
that’s what the kitchen thinks.  I repeat a
beer to my brain, endless.  It’s water with

a slice of lemon.  Eases butter as it melts.
Dip an oar into the cool creek.  Like that.

mcdxxx

Great Catch

You’ve got a lot going on at the
other end of the couch.  This drink.
Pour another beer into the flame.

“I’m really in love,” he stutters.
Unless someone can prove other-
wise.  Unless breakfast is burning.

“I’m too old for this,” I kept
repeating to my brain.  An unfamiliar
phrase.  Four new wigs for Christmas.

Don’t be a replacement.  Economical
is comical.  Force the issue.  When
it cries make a note of it.

mcdxxix

A raven’s wing
is graying on your cheek.
                  —Melissa Broder

Defeated?  Sit on the Great Wall.
Wipe the table.  November heats up
so turn on the fan.  Stir things up so
you need to pop an antihistamine.

Tonight.  Trying to get things done.
Rihanna in tow.  Of course it’s wrong.
Will we have a lifetime (and he’s off
to Paris)?  A million questions to...

prepare...attempt....  The one argument
of concern plus a broke iPhone and
a pair of flip-flops in the kitchen sink.
A little devil singes your pants. All

aglow with Asahi.  Break it up with
a glass of water and a prescription
for insanity.  Pills to cool the
junkie weather.  And X the

buzzing phone.  I got you,
a red bookmark in the sun,
stubble from sleeping all day.

mcdxxviii

braindrained from missing you and
david barber’s celebration of life
with the best sunset ever, tho.
driving back and forth from carmel
and missing you, but mostly the
little correspondences i’ve gotten
(but you telling me you’re disappointed
which is understandable
and when is life fair you’d say) or
_____________ spoken positive love tokens
resounding in my head because sometimes
i feel i do everything wrong
when i’m just trying extra special
to do everything just right
all the love in my heart is only because of you
and my heart is yours and what’s mine is ours
and you’re so independent it hurts
and i’m so proud of you
transcendent photos and far-out loving
open up your mouth never seen anything like it
paintings on the wall
the wall i love a brilliant blue
a sealed-up surprise home for unseen tea green
and coco loco and the ox
lean on me like a house of cards
whispering past-present-future dreams
and lean on me
a foundation for a red-caped hitman
lean on me
a home on a hill or another hill
a november in the springtime of love

mcdxxvii

Sterilized Repetitive Morons

     By the way, I never had a sex tape
     and I always wore panties.
                                     —Shannen Doherty

Visa.  Passport.  Dinner.
Do you figure you’re a fugitive now?
Like you live on the right-hand side of the
couch, I on the left?

Maybe she’s his daughter.

mcdxxvi

I love weather

I think I saw Jesus’s butt
in my dollop of shaving
cream this morning.  It
was blue and under-
age.  Make

worms not word bombs.

mcdxxv

OK, but with a big pain in my
back for some reason. Probably
karma. The last sentence that
tends to be periodless. A snow
of dandruff. Are you reading me?
Are you confused by the stripes?

Ok then. Back to it (‘back twit’).
And then {SNEEZE}. It’s totally
like I’m pregnant, right? It’s true,
you tend to like a song better
if it’s sung in French.

mcdxxiv

elemonade the Patty’s map
            —David Foster Wallace

Prognosis: I’m as slow as Christmas
and as happy as a clam.  Everyone
stares into the middle of the sentence.
Nevertheless over the tops of nuns we 

bitch.  An airplane types an urgent 

letter to your ex.  Everyone stares
at a bench.

So Christmas comes Cajun and
second-oldest lobster asks for seconds.
Its eyebrow becomes detached in a
harpoon incident.  The nuns belch
and then I hear a very loud laugh
cuz Roger’s got his hand
on the controls.

mcdxxiii

Self-Annihilation

Isn’t that something like nirvana?
Only if you’re an optimist.

I’ll defy emptiness
instead of dying
(Fanny Howe).

One morning the crack of dawn
splits nobody’s ears. The pigeons
wake up and do their dance.

A new season (or a new leaf).
A new television season.

I didn’t shoot the turtle.
My grandfather was a
knife collector.

When love looks you in the eye
for hours, does love then go away
for the whole weekend?

Take off all your clothes,
sanitize your body,
remove all words.

Nobody will beckon.
You are the mountain.

mcdxxii

I Miss You

No one will. What’s missing is
the fire in our sorrows (F Howe).
If only.

mcdxxi

Father War

Come to terms with the impossible?
Do you even remember why ‘abstract’
is an option?  _______ is nostalgia.

mcdxx

A Grown-Up

I received your promotion, and furthermore,
big dinner.  From last year—a hunk of snow
in the freezer.  An online class on how to ad-
monish fame, but daydreaming. Making nice
with the place you live; cooking big just to
show how much you love.

mcdxix

More frosting, world.

Like, for example, if we ever
ran out of rain. Probably
won’t be able to write
much. These last
pieces.

mcdxviii

But is it demeaning?

To you, I mean? The sun can’t
come out today. It’s in the hole
of your calendar. Which isn’t
nearly as amazing as how deep

I can push my eyes into what’s
left of your offering. I like a
good education but there’s
nothing worse than offending

unintentionally. And then I
thought about it. Because
now I can go friend-hopping
with morning breath. Touché.

This is good. I should tell you
what to do more often.

mcdxvii

Please don’t forget my orientation.

I have lost my attachment. Let’s make this
the boring crisis. Check the beast. Inhale.

My bunkmate has ESP he’s been using on me
regularly. So now he sits on my end of the

couch. It’s not that hot. I signed up for
the other side. So....

Sometimes snowmen need new underwear, too.
Put that on your list of disrepair.

Maybe some breakdown jeans or a
nurse’s uniform. I wanted to

pound my head a while.
Forgot I couldn’t see.

There goes my orientation.

mcdxvi

A Cloud Hung Over A Webcam

Check the temperature. Violence
weather and social disrepair. An-
other bump in the grind. And
am I providing?

Cover the filter with embryonic
absurdity. Protect him from
the escape of the blue rooster.
Accept the communication.

Mountains shift. Gates with
lots of teeth and a crappy
salad. Check breath for
sun. Accept whatever

happens. Except
this Altoid.

mcdxv

Yet Another Ian

He has some serious mojo
right now. The root of my
blues is I have to show. I
can do improper with

how many doubts? All
ways lead to a Rollerball
question. Don’t give up
his mind. Slap it into a

curve. Someone like
me to judge. And then
walk on it. The
crap in the distance

brings rain. Big re-
verse provides
long haul (of
impossibilities).

mcdxiv

Give In (One Last Time)

New to the touch.  It was
the age of the orange blanket.
The Tudors got sexier and
each brother got embarrassed.

Part of the tantrum illusion,
the top floor of Macy’s takes
less time to arrive.  Not a
hint of scuffle.  Burberry

is exchanged (it is the
end of summer).  Dis-
like how to operate
belly and mess up

conflict resolution.  KFC
and red velvet with Buzz!

mcdxiii

Rome Adventure

On the dry peppered path. Arguing
with my brother over an Arizona.
Roll over any voices. A chortle
broken chewing a libation. All
the cheesecake gone.

Racism in bars. At percentages
a house bunny rectifies. De-
bating doorknobs loud enough
to scuttle the shuttle. Boss
tossed into custody battle.

A cold shoulder to a
panel of Amazon. Rome
erupts into Suzanne
Pleshette and teen-
lipped Chad Everett.

Argue with Angie Dick-
inson over a load of cash.

mcdxii

The Transformer

Sunday dawn.  Misty-eyed,
projecting Ian onto me with
apology on apology as the
other Ian posts a disco Snoop.

Flaw in left arch.  Cramp-
mania.  The muse beats his
amuse-bouche.  Coco
catches people in

doorways.  Slaps them
into a hummingbird
shape.

mcdxi

Why Would Anyone Not Want to Know the Most?

I can think of plenty of reasons. But if you start
frustrated, lack of money, arguments. Then need to
retreat or retract (depending on how you read)
until sunrise. Doesn’t seem to reach senses.
Like our methods of execution, which we
operate in a relationship. Plus the brain.

So the rest of your blues is lack of: Do anything?
No money and feel lost? Not proper? Woo to the
wrong? Really fucked about having to show?

Everything of me always defined. Which is
why, for example, I generally do not wear
socks. Who I’m with. How many points.
Truly doubts. Does he love. He’s made up
his mind. And miss. So is it just I am a
curse; who’s to judge and let any people
walk the way they walk (which, after all,
is godgiven and respect). So buy it.

mcdx

Sometimes It’s Easy

     Your friends seem to think that you’re
     so peachy keen
                                   —Janet Jackson

Will stop.  Not even funny or interesting.
Thinking of times.  More soon.  Staying
so busy.  Trumpet playing a little song
from Working My Abs.  I experience
because I stretch.  How to say that
different.  I love.  Who’s heading
here.  The phone.

And then what did you learn?
Onward to yellow?  Feeling a bit
sunken and insecure?  First official
conversation about finances?

We are so completed now.  Many
things are generally perfect and
on paper.  This complication
with paper.  The proper state
of mind expenditures.  The
make / hold on /

The make or break.  We’ve
moved right through breaktime.

mcdix

A room without an ocean.  Clear
delineation of color as it abides
sunset.  For example, red appears.
We didn’t know who it was at

first.  Or the way I describe
engagement as the only
means.  Why else would he
android me?

My writhing finger finds
your solace.

mcdviii

Riffling Its Flesh

     and doesn’t Giacometti make you want to slip an Ingres girl a feel?
                                                                          —James Schuyler

I’ve always had a thing for skinny.
And this has kept me busy; always
wondering how to get there. The
cloudy sea casts its spell; a lullaby
or diversion; a vacation of the mind.

But then there were the exceptions.
Like the kid from the video store who
reminded me of Buddha. I like the
pressure created by leaving the door
ajar, the melody it sings to the shush-

ing sea. I can’t remember how it
all went down, but it definitely went
down; in the apartment I turned a
closet into an office with a garden
view. Back when I used to move

a lot I’d occasionally get rid of
refrigerator magnets in fell swoops.
Toss the lot into the can along with
dated prints, like Toulouse-Latrec
or Escher’s impossible stairwell.

I got a waterbed, a gift from an
ex. It sprung a leak on a stubbled
skater-kid liked to do drag. He lit a
guilty smoke for each sogged towel
and then we learned how to patch it.

mcdvii

The Camera Pin

You don’t think I’m funny anymore.
She cuts the package and says “I can’t
write like this every day!”  The audience’s
empathy.

A clean knife is best in such cases.  It’s
not like it’s the very last day.  But go
with it. See how things work.  This
really pisses her off.

My favorite is definitely The Confetti
Trees.  If you look at everything like it’s
a movie plot you can really have a field day.
She sees things differently.

We chained the dog to a tree on Christmas
Day.  I named him Snoopy.  Everyone was
scared and neglected.  Before the end of
winter, the maple tree was dead.

mcdvi

He decides to body his weakness
until the voyage of the sunrise. A
series of short naps in the morning
relieve the sky of its clouds. The
day! He licks his wounds, tucks
a pillow under his thumb, eats
an orange. An orange sits in
a silver bowl (next to a
bruised pear). Starting
backwards (from the
top) diCaprio exhales
a delicate sigh. He
recommends the
decompressed
time. Fine. 11
mornings later he
arrives: cool glass,
parched lips, smooth
leaden sea. His left
arch twinges. I remem-
ber picking him up and
putting him into my pocket
for the very first time. We had
just passed the used car lot on our
way to the Black Bacon Cafe for eggs
(over hard, astride two dark and chalky
slips of the BBC’s namesake), coffee’d
cream, and scads of McElheny’s
fresh, extra-thick honey.

mcdv

Shine Like Bacon

In and out of cous-cous.
Sitting tucked into the
wall of the hallway
because I’d called the

substitute teacher Ms.
Tuss-Tuss.  Poor
Sandra Bullock,
she can’t swim.

I live the life we
all dream of.

mcdiv

How Slow to Enjoy

A member of a girl cult knocks
on the door and you haven’t
any batter. Most seasons
you embrace amnesia

but this courting requires
anemone. Or at least a
pheromone or two.
Tulsa’s on the

phone, another crock
of bric-a-brac is
chunked into the
ocean. Live fast

and die orgasm. But
that’s too old-fashioned.
Trade up. A whole
bottle of mottos

for a slim bag
of tater tots.

mcdiii

Hanging Out with the Groupies

Dig past a clumsy nerve to the
post office.  It’s Saturday and
you’re Ikea-anxious but monu-
mental (goodbye proposition).

Going somewhere?  Spend a
week on water.  The coffee
tastes like birds but the
bananas are delicious.

A peach falls from the
hull and into the mouth of a
landlubber.  Jennifer Coolidge
calls Kirstie Alley to recommend

the Cocaine Diet.  Broadway finds
the Baltic and the Sisters of Em-
pathy telethon begins.  The
attire is Viking and it

lasts until about 5am.  Dance
onstage til the in-laws
arrive with a new deck of
icebreakers.  Like

the proper way to say
grandma in Russian.

mcdii

Nothing is difficult
when it passes out
in front of you.

mcdi

A Terse Interview with Oliver Stone

Suspense and belief
Suspense and repeat

“Hitchcock guff?”
“Hitchcock guff!”

Oliver, gruff
Oliver, gruff

Some people give me
Grief over empathy

Veep of the symphony
I’m not the enemy

Some people gave me
Grievance & misery

I’m not the enemy
You go to Cuba

And press on the ishes
You go to W

Press is the issue
Press on the issue

(And press on the ishes)
(Press is the ishes)

mcd

As If Olive

not obedient in such a way that
heart’s complacency...in another
life it takes to...would have known
...“talk to me later about Woody

Allen”...it’s like you just got lazy
...as if your heart’s complacency
would have known two weeks
plus...ladies crossing Battery

bring it on...awesome coolish
air from vent below...then we
pumped some gas into the...
archipelago (Stockholm

leaves an impression)...to
gether...got some groceries

mcccxcix

For Example

Take the bellhop
who almost ran
out of pageboys.

mcccxcviii

Invisible Torch

Night’s (meta-)bullocks
tumble past.  Lodged
in the ass of the mind,
you’re no stranger.  Get

your wrists about you,
make withdrawal list.
Happiest week in
two whole years,

Thanksgiving comes
Eastertime.  Take a
fragment, right?  De-
fine passive.  Enjoy

this last contradiction.
An idealistic nod East.

mcccxcvii

Where were we when grief
dribbled, Davos?  Then we
chat a lot for the first time.
Most of the last few days we

read in bed.  Sitting at Steph’s
a couple of years ago mixed
in wit.  Nice dance on our
first fight.  Over lots of dim

sum.  The fact I don’t eat
pork or beef and the surreal-
ity of happiness.  Our garden
lease as an example.  But he

was too cute being mad at
me.  We smoke and watch
a bad Hong Kong movie,
dance two weeks in a row.

mcccxcvi

Bull Pilot

“Bust the mouth off the
pecker!” he shouts. I think,
maybe two doors down, “And
stick it where the sun don’t shine!”

mcccxcv

I Scored a Ghost

     slice of boot on the frayed sylph
                        —Barbara Guest

How cities attempt to mirror
Venice.  Then the rain comes
(and the ice).  I’ll take the high
road, the Stockholm archipel-

ago.  Birds of pallid Aptos
bless the charcoal sky and
the rain, inventory ghosts
of happy evenings, group

ghosts specific to time
and place made possible
by weather maps of vast
airy rooms; obligatory

candids.  A parquetry of
chalklines gives one voice
to each perspective.  But
each [unit of time] I’ve

no less than a [number] of
voices.  Do the math.  So
then we watch The Triplets
of Belleville as the Swedish

seabirds multiply and gather,
gather and (again) multiply.

mcccxciv

Skin-Graft of a King

Hold fast your slippery bosom!
Ran into the middle of your name
rocking out on a Mac in the middle
of the ocean (as I recall, you served me

a slice of water and a bug).  Remind 

me to tell you that when you moved to
Ashland was the beginning of time.
I cherish all previous moments, too,

but beyond that I can’t write.  Runny
eggs are not my specialty.  Complete
with a poetry reading in the middle of
nowhere.  A spontaneous.  Round the

room and over the couch.  Parking in
the familiar and playing the (finger-
tips might remember the score
but wake up new each day) dream-

ing about pianos.  I found a white one
for you.  I wrapped it up to keep it
from the sunlight.  It’s waiting up-
stairs with a big blue bow on it.

mcccxciii

This Is So Relief

Yes I stole the power
of the tinkling water.

mcccxcii

Not Mangoes

It was Aptos
we fell.  Not
into disson-
ance (to the
tune of

Going the
Distance),
but into be-
holden.
This is the

deck. It’s
where I
like it.
Whoops,
there’s a

flame
on your
pizza. Be-
tter blow
it out.

mcccxci

Wrap It Up

I’ve the urge to do a push-up,
don’t you? It’s a slick paradise
but somebody’s got to do it. Hard

to ease out of this or just to main-
tain it for a while. Too easy and
totally comfortable.

In the Galapagos, even the wraiths
wear headbands. A distant clug
(as in don’t be a...).

Tomorrow it’s Fall of the House
of Usher at Erin’s.

mcccxc

Odor Lines

I love it when you use the blue box
in vain.  Spending Saturday a first in (art)
clam class.  More pleasantries of boy-
friend of art intruder.  Now I have it in-

terview.  Something I wanted in bad.
A mosaic of mown cars out of town (and).
Au revoir, Warsaw. The slip’s coming
up way too early.  Twenty-four

hours of my.  (Now) I have it into be-
ing.  Officially taken on a ride.  (Forever
this combination of really and re-
lief.  To maintain this excited into

let me.  It feels a[.]h so many times.)
I love it when you use that box.

mccclxxxix

An Alliance of Motives

But I want to know how you
got to the baguette. Transition
is key. Deign not to eliminate
articles.

Multiple Frasiers. So he can
get his hair done. Saturday.
Together and out of town.
Giant morsel of sun.

Driving down. Backtrack.
An orange chair on his
chest. 2 or 3 chances
for memory.

Into plushed. We shall
seem. Out of town.

mccclxxxviii

Good Gracious, Glasnost
(or Thanksgiving on the Baltic)

     Dutch trains like spectacles of insecurity.
                             —D.W. Lichtenberg

I was closed Wednesday and
discovered getting to a top on
Nob Hill. Delirious down Hyde
and specifically the part where we

were hanging off a cable car to
get back and deciding maybe
friends would take us there. Are
you off? I’m so off. And so

off we went. Used to be a word
(pleasant) always meant I should
take a big bite out of him. Eating
flesh knows the future, or so my

cookie likes to say. Reading this,
I know, zombies. So tonight we
take his request. Talking pictures
with lots of spots, or so suggests

my nephew (He’s all strapping
now, often shirtless. How simple
we must have been!). Anyway,
on a whim we fly into a couple of

kitchens in Santa Cruz, fall in love
all Swedish. It’s like how many
months of this happening? I
know, but don’t forget:

we all get 2 or 3 chances
on the RSVP. So today
I’m on a boat to the Spilled
Blood to praise be. Ah, men.

mccclxxxvii

Sonnet for Sainthood

Magically demented, electro-
magnetic. But don’t rock the
boat? Our era-less scene, to
which I return for a turn-on.

Note not to use the word war
nor disbelieve when someone
picks up a rock and hands it
over as a gift. Seek abhor-

rence. More at shock. Not
like that, though. Come up
from behind like energy. A
wave of something undisc-

overed. A fortune in shale,
nor molten obsidian / glass.

mccclxxxvi

In this I am person.

In this way I am old-fashioned. I am
having a blast but I’m missing my people.

People? I was not the one who said vacation
is not vacation if you internet. Close fists on

thumbs; vacate. Feel my heart to see. So
there is no shame in awake. Start renew, with

little fists of a sentence. Here I am again. A
clump of dust caught in a cloud. Enjoy the bit

about things. About almost not at all. Cling
but for a second or two. Marry. Get even.

mccclxxxv

Try It On Again

Music bubbles on your noggin. Iced up
grouse, good at Birdhenge. January
on the South Beach Diet? Remind
me to say this sometime:

          This is the best
          I’ve ever been.

          While you’re
          getting famous

          I’m getting
          brilliant.

Easter it ain’t. This hunk of sound a dis-
proportionate secret. Scribble all night
you Nightscribbler. Go to Bahamas and
smoke ears clasped with safety pins.

mccclxxxiv

Russian Sonneteer

What do I do but on and on?
Heaven. Remember when?
I arrived so obvious, dirt of
Russia. Show up a skeptical

blot. Honestly my love is
food. Somewhere afterwards
eternally. Relax as it comes.
Re-right it and lose 25. Of

nuclear rays in tiny golden-
rod gardens. Blue specs that
do look great. Take it all as 

it comes and in the right di-

rection Heaven. Re-member
dirt of the obvious, skeptic.

mccclxxxiii

Slowly to Estonia

Bang around a hollow. Roiled
in on itself. Listening to a lot of
strings. Many are trifles. Tour

requires two hours of walking
on cobblestone streets but gays
like to cycle (see “sold out”).

Speak as if people are paying
attention. This is what happens
when you take yourself seriously.

mccclxxxii

lightness under curled vapor
                —Barbara Guest

The joke that I am straight
has gone on long enough.
I never paid the two crowns
I owed the photocopier. He
calls me psychiatric help. I
said that sounds like a strap
in the right direction. Can’t
say I wasn’t cautiously ec-
static. We talk for a while
about rewriting history.
Seems overly possible in
context. Taut come-ons.
Later, maybe 11 years I
guess, I couldn’t resist.
For posterity. But
I did anyway.

mccclxxxi

Sour Bosom

Holy hotcakes, Del,
you’ve done it!

mccclxxx

...impending in that it ‘could be’...
not that it isn’t already...

...upon closer inspection, we’re
always in the in-between...

...in transition and afright...is this us
good?

...windmills ashore...cautiously
optimistic...

...after telling me yesterday...I am
constantly...good...indecisive...

lacking us...confidence...tragic-
omic...on the verge of...

...among other things...

mccclxxix

     dealt a rat lust
         —Barbara Guest

You’re unplayed to the hilt.

mccclxxviii

...and create...a larger lather in a
rather lithe lager...nevertheless
it is sumptuous...and...

...this is the story of my life...

...now I am out into the into
and it is good...craggy luggage
hangs from rafters...

...every artist should be studied
within the context of her
sexuality...frostbitten

glands...rude men bear arms...

...topsy-turvy gleanings of neo-
civilization...architectural
longing...

...reconciliation...specifically
numb impending...with regard
to recent moonlight...

...I resent the moon...I stole
it in a beer-mug and give
it to you now...I...

...I could go on becomes
I could go...

mccclxxvii

Whore o’ the Sea

I’m just trying on
the shape of it. Or
what’s that word

I’m doing, taking
tooth for lips, re-
describing purple,

whirring sticker-
shock into narrative?
Nothing in a week

and a half of sour
until “Morning?” (he
writes). “Seems to me

you’re a guy likes to
breathe” (hot / stone).
“I’d do more if I were

you” (each / stab). His
next exit makes outer
space a piece of cake.

mccclxxvi

The Spoken Fish

I took the liberty of waking up at
2:37am.  It’s gonna go by so fast.

I’m thirsty, bring me a towel.
Proving to myself that I’m very

set in my ways.  In formal dress
domestic remarks reel into a corpus

known as stanzas (B. Guest).  I
ate a pear – or – I thought about

eating a pear.  The first phrase, be-
ing fiction, begs what is thought?

Be, I guess.  And what to do with
all of the love?  As I slip into sins,

there are three items of fruit on a
table to my left.  Taking an elegant

knife into its plump, green-dimpled
dress, a drippy red blotch of moon,

which portion of the world am I?

mccclxxv

                      there is no sailing but into marmalade

                                              in a time of marmalade.

                                                         —Gerrit Lansing

Is it Thursday or Friday? Is it the weekend?
I dunno. Lots of talking. Thank goodness.
Sort of.

And here (interested in spending weekend,
Napa, Russia mebbe) and that.
Somewhere on Saturday night,

emailing all the time, a friend, SFMOMA.
Not the answer. I lost.

Blue jeans, emotional. “Constantly running up
explosive personal debts” (Paul Hannigan).

All I can say on that right now. Guy still works.
Which if you ask some people is part of a problem.

Then Mel’s. He knows more than most. For
certain. Cute, huh? Or “You would not
want to meet a nicer woman.”

Sort of. A heart bigger than a sleeve of advert-
isement. Sympathy notes? That’s not the
answer.

I kinda wanna be celibate but who knows?
It’s too chilly to sit on this park bench.

mccclxxiv

          A long flat makes you feel
          like a gypsy pygmy.
                             —Paul Hannigan

So stress...feeling relative...week.
Last night...looks great...fuck again.
Him’s...so miserable...make me...
feeling.  Well, no—

Food for thought...seeming so...
loins.  The tilt of the ship.

mccclxxiii

A bird is flying into a golden age.
The phrase “think tank” and the
word “tanka” make me think
“tank top” – do me wrong?

New dogma years are upon us,
right? His email address arrives.

mccclxxii

Greetings from Inertia

I only wanted a capful of your
muck.  The funk of it keeps me
wound for days.  Woo’d as I was
in Borup, yet a pimple of a bump
kin, a plebe for life; a lifer.  I mean
it, this drivel campaign.  It’s not a
thing that scars, like a dimple on the
rarest of souls.  Only the musk of its
shadow and your pink essay appliqué.

mccclxxi

His passion for abstraction is gripping
                            —Barbara Guest

I have too arrival. Smack against
olive India this cote is Wayned.
Desire has so little to do with de
stiny. Except that I made it up
hill endive and mispounced.

Ringsted. Reflect invective.

But I didn’t come to swan. Only
to fair leavened Heather and her
flagpole. Strip bare the Danish
opening and tsk tsk. Rather out
of the stinker than into a moil.

mccclxx

Passing Korsør

This is the highway to pizza. Plush,
auburn pastures and a calamity of
windmills. A proclivity is not a
calamity.

Jayne Mansfield needs a girdle,
what of it? I’ve a purple flowering
of the elbow. Each bouquet –
when compressed (or expressed) –
tethers into a smirk.

Lavender Fusilli

mccclxix

“This is destruction.”  Graffiti
on the downgrade.  Here’s a
train thru Denmark, a town of
some size you never hear about.

“Fuck 42.”
Good thing I’m 43 and gay.
“Prik” gets around.  Each
pink flag a dithering swath.

The rain’s gone; Odense
against a big, lazy bruise.
A purple-tinged heart
with “SOS” all over it.

mccclxviii

He was right, they were all wearing
gladiator sandals.  Some with heels,
so not sandals.  I needed a big piece
but said no, not in the shower.  We
all stood disappointed, looking at
each other, steaming, hungry.

“Anything makes me horny,” he
said.  Under the spray, back against
the wall, I fetch his eyes, his face,
his whiskers, his eyes, the little
shaved hairs on the top of his
chest and shoulders,

slightly sunburned from Las
Vegas, his eyes, a kiss—
I love him.  I want to say
he will want to be mine.
I want it.  I have this.  A
kick.  A Roman knot.
Will always have.

mccclxvii

Party with the typewriters.

Party with the typewriters.
I got him off and he didn’t
me.  Wub lubes in myster-
ious ways.  Take out your
wallet and beat it slightly.

Look how I’m branded.
Next up, curated (a new
tattoo in 3-D).  Later,
we embrace nerve loss.
There’s no way of know-

ing which chapter to
be in.  A place like
Tokyo.  Maps are no
use.  Winter slides over
your skull.  A bucket of

loss is worth two in the
drain.  It’s his eagerness
for wisdom got me.  A
knowing push when
democracy reels it in.

mccclxvi

You Like ’Em Problem?

He tells me how he
cut his eyelashes;
they were too girly.
Now he regrets it.

They fuck up the fish
anymore, these ocean
walks.  No time for
pain, the beach for

Japanese.  Classism
to the core.  Talk ser
ious under the stars.
The stars are serious.

I too often.  Next
level?  Whatever,
glut of night.  Walk
(work), walk (wok),

walk.  Grabbing
at me through the
night.  Girly on
girly grabbing.

mccclxv

Chamber Music

Three scrambles and a
big sausage.  Nice, huh?
The Sutro something-or-
other.  Brunch on ham
and smoke.  We play
with rules.  I beg to
differ.

Something comfort-
able (liver) but glad
to be there.  A night
out at the convenience
store.  Four blocks to
the nearest hookah.

Try to say it zombie,
boozing it up like
Kitten on the Keys.
Tonight?  Sorry,
I’m not buttoned
or zippered and a
little flushed.

Weave in and out
of your lane like a
sob story.  Just you
and me?  Nope?  He
got pushed to the
end and checked
himself in.

mccclxiv

Drive off.  “I love you,
too.”  I’m dance meat.

St. Patrick’s on a green
page.  My sister says

“My friends think
this one is sexy.”

Profile pellets or
birds peck at pic-

tures.  Afternoon
in the cauldron.

Speed to Salinas,
call in sick til noon

out at the park
over Ocean Beach.

We talk about
collaborating on

bacteria til
sunrise.

mccclxiii

Death by Chicken Cubes

You’ve the body of an
eel.  Gravity supports
this, shaved hundreds
to get here.  “He’s not
meant to be a guest,”
she said loud enough.
I was closing the door
just to hear.

“Walk up to my apart-
ment.  Wait a second.”

mccclxii

Another Runny Nose

Have you tried my
Japanese shampoo?
“I never look
in your shower.”

How is Orange,
Funny?

“More noodle soup,”
as I pull away,
surrounded anger.

Open the door
and say “I
love you,” Miss
Entangle.

mccclxi

A Friend from High School

The concept is a quartet of
helium-filled balloons look-
ing down on your hometown

as they’re let go by a child-
hood sweetheart.  We’ve a
cache of vitamins in our

cliché’d heads.  “Have
fun.  Be careful.”  And
he gives me a long kiss.

mccclx

Las Vegas

Really unexpected.
Don’t eat the as-
paragus here.

mccclix

Era of Studs

Turning like Jeeves
stretches an irony,
unsure if it’ll flow,
a randy simpleton
sticks to his own
advices.  Portrait
of a Bloody Mary
on a Tokyo Roof-
top stares at us
like we are to
blame.  Tells
us it loves us.

mccclviii

We bend to hear the voice of
a grapefruit and like groping
stairs our rights into darkness
diminish.  Be well in soul and
body.  Heads are made to butt
and clutter.  Fail to do for atten-
tion what things have done for
you.  Find your own banana,
hold it gentle and bruiseless
as a swan of infinite glass up-
on a thousand rivers of poop.

mccclvii

The virgin takes the cake.

“Crank it up a notch
and deal with it.  The

husband game is not
what it used to be.”

“But how’d it always
come to this; ’member

warts and all?”  “’At’s
just game, muh lolli-

pop, so let’s get it on
—and gun it!”

mccclvi

Celebrity Taken Seriously

               You recognize like the back of
     nobody’s business
                                   —Bill Berkson

Don’t leave your heart in the elevator
without any boobs.  Go about your own
authenticity.  Call again while crab-

walking but don’t dunk too willingly.

Get with it, Kid.  Erstwhile glitz
is for the sharks.  Invest all of
your boom-boom in snark.

mccclv

Your dead daddy is a dangerous man.
                    —Sherman Alexie

Admit your own flame
as you delve amid lust.

Make it appear frequently
no matter what they say.

Ahoy, yahoo!  I’m just
one grave jove undressing

another.  Tell it sleepy
and unvisited: Time

has a boyfriend tonight.

mcccliv

He did say (– why’d he say –)
“Thanks for the draft of
my heart” with the
lights out. (– ? –)  I lie 

down to close his eyes.

A moment keeps—

Las Vegas is so
where you are with me.
And that’s only the
nub of it;

endorphins and
unexpressed realism.
Feening ain’t all it’s
cracked up to be, huh?

This position—

Hand over eyebrow and
arm over sun.  Milk it
like the sap you
so deftly con

tinue to craft.

mcccliii

“Hello, O.  I’m D.”  Christmas in the
Adirondacks.  Aggravating guestwork.

So I make a list of t-shirts and every-
thing comes back to you.  The pressed

hair, the extra sugar.  But the gravity
of such a moment, the expulsion,

an awkward shift from seething
grace to malappropriate.  “But

I don’t do it like that.”  The
big machine twists around

onto its threes, like sluggish
oxen sex, and makes hello.

mccclii

     Why do you go West?
     What is the City you are now in?
                            —Barrett Watten

Okay, plans of shigging bones: Time
purples the sun right out of our eyes
until the shifty clouds go Tokyo.

This love hotel is a time capsule.
Generally being left, “Keep to the
right here” sends us all to hell,

but it’s a gracious picnic indeed.
Here we are plucking our way
into a stream of punky kitten-

ettes (sex is religion, of course,
but religions deliquesce).  We
all go one direction or the

other.  And so do I
some summer
afternoons.

mcccli

Old Man likes the feel of it.  Starts
beer and a zest for salt.  Likes tall
structures but not for the hurt of it.

So much one can do to a night on
the street.  Cleave and cleave just
for the bliss of it; for a sandwich

of heart.  Colonizing class makes
economy of status.  “Quo this,”
it might say, if it were up to it.

Old Man’s not sure if eleven
or ten but is going to a pick-
me-up.  To talk and to talk.

Life’s so like lost lust in
warp and feel.  Old M
is attempting like

hell to avoid it,
but here
it is.

mcccl

If you get the bumper then holding it the right way doesn’t matter.*

     Somewhere in the secret hills an ancient grave is slowly giving birth
     While images of beasts carol and adore.
                                                                        —Gerrit Lansing

Outside it looks like a Tokyo storm
where Tommy Lee Jones is boss.
I let go, check...and it’s real.  But

I can only go 15 pages.  After that
it’s all supposed to go together,
right?  The mind is endless

and meaningful.  Or simply,
boys in bed machine the
book of wheat until

it sings to fly.  A whole
poem stolen just to
get it through.


*poem title thanks to Otto Chan

mcccxlix

It.   Is.   No.   Myth.

How many racists does it take
to screw in a lightbulb?
None.  Racists hate to be
enlightened.  Well,
I have to say,

it’s a bit shocking
for an amateur such as
myself.  “I’m not Japanese,
I’m just well-mannered,” he says.

Minds are endless, I suppose.
Which always takes the cake.

mcccxlviii

What a jarring image!

One thing about the New Age of Marketing is
that it’s certainly shooting yourself in the foot
to build labyrinths of self-reference.  Kick that
20th century dessert goodbye.  Image is still
everything, of course, but it’s gotta grab fast,
it has to stand on its own legs in a supersat
urated to the stratosphere, in&out (&in&out)
world.  So how’d we up the ante on using a set
of images based on a set of supposed images
based on somebody’s second-hand description
of said (or purported) images?  On words intent
on capturing the essence of words originally
meant to represent the god-honest truth of a
mere tidbit of gossip?  Nirvana’s never been
easier, my friend, nor has its pathway been
less apt.  Evolution needn’t divvy out one
extra brain cell; no need for sharper tongue
nor smoother synapse when there’s one rule
around and one rule only.  And that is this:
the image with the most comments wins.

mcccxlvii

God grant me the serenity to be as I do.
(or Wow, look who just went public!  Ouch!)

Aw, look who’s the last to learn that
public photo comments are the new
instant message?  I say be loud &
proud, Dear.  And when you get the
urge to tell your man you love him,
ALL CAPS, BABY!

So what if the biggest ’ho of us all 

is exhibitionism, which comes in
all shapes and sizes, all colors and
dimensions, is as radical as it is
conservative, as democratic as
it is exclusionary, and, way more
often than not, is auto-erotic?

Plus, it’s very difficult to wad up
and stick up somebody’s yoohoo cuz
THEN IT WOULDN’T BE SEEN!  Haha.

mcccxlvi

Sprinkles on Everything

I still have a little bit of a noggin but
sometimes it’s just too big for my
britches.  He turns up while I’m
sitting on Iris, says “Now everyone
we know is famous!”  I lie down.
It’s just another list.

Who’s up for a public debate
on photo #17?  We can buy a
bottle or two of wine, invite
a few people over, and make
like it’s comedy night.

Maybe other people will
start to think he actually
speaks?  I’m such a fool,
I guess.  I just cried and
told him not to say any-
thing.  Having sex now
will make it all okay,
I think.

Then we went for a
walk on the beach.
My feelings are
confirmed.  I’m
going to look
for a new job.

mcccxlv

Incense

I have a little ash or a little ache for faith
drafted into work (or into a Work) a-
round 5pm knocking the light out.
For those with memory (not rose-
mary) it may come as quite a
surprise.  Concentrate on
faith.  I don’t get it any
more but I’ve faith that if
I think enough on this moment
of time (here in my hand) something
will come of it.  There’s an elucidation,
something like joy upgraded, in meditation,
or whatever you’d call it in our Age of
Short Attention-Span. Or at my age.