mdcxxiv

All along it was Camille!
(a true story a fiction an homage of an anachronizm)

Camille stole my dildo!                              But no, she’s never even been here.
Wait.                  I invited her a few times,                                and she RSVP’d “Yes,”

at least once.    [Agh!  It’s just her poetry does this to me!]    I dip my head
into a bowl of tiny leftovers.  Chow fun, asparagus, sour tofu, brown rice,
and tiny chicken.  I love my blue head.

Distracted, trying to figure out which Kevin Costner movie
Ernie was in such a panic to get us to remember the name of.
Shouts of Dances with Wolves, Waterworld, The Mailman (that
was me; I remember nothing, but I remember the trailer for The
Postman vividly. Which for some reason leads my mind to Tina
Turner and I shout – with conviction – MAD MAX?) !

Finally, she basically has to give it away.           “Three letters!”
                                             “In the first word?” asks Maysley.

Do they really play JFK “all the time” on “regular television??”  I beseech. I’m in
awe of television. I wonder about it. About what it must be. About what it is.

I’m up to March of 1999 tagging photos, close to when I flipped
the switch. Off with Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Off with
reality television. I look at each (in contrast?) hyperbolic character
(aka my closest friends) on my computer screen (where Hulu ails).

Scene: a comedy, mostly. Abs-enhancing gutterbelly and diabolical
laughter. Then. Not now.

Now I brace the back of my head with fingers-clasped-open-palms,
lean back and sort of shake-roll my eyes up into my head. Add slomo
smile, tiny build-up (almost. no. movement) & upturned lips that warm –
like a plugged-in heating pad curtaining your ribcage – from the inside.

Who the fuck stole that three dollar dildo? Whatever! That winter
held a veritable dildo diaspora in its clutches of rain and fog. Who’s the
bozo who crammed his head into every drawer, crawled into each closet
and removed everything one by one, moved the refrigerator into the
middle of the kitchen, unplugged for hours, scuffing the floors,
stirring up legendary dust.

With lips upcurled like a Stepford Wife and eyes rolling up into the
disco ball that ate my brain (my Barbary Lane) I collapse into couch,
bite tongue, breathe in the Buddha, breathe out a Bloody Mary into a
[MOURNFUL:] square wheel.   It.   Was.   My.   Fucking.   Dildo.

mdcxxiii

accolades

That makes me feel one more encore
but it’s another story, like Durwood
trying to explain that the tofu
is too sour. It’s gone bad?

I totally think it’s the intention,
what with being mixed up on
asparagus and all. Okay?
One person’s anathema

is another’s...enema I was
going to say. But instead
maybe waxed mustache
is closer to graduating

with honors [honorary
charges – as opposed to
dishonorary discharges
I think]. The sound the

elevator makes when its
door closes is a four-letter
word. It is so condensed
(in counter to the wheez-

ing yawn it used to be).
It’s enough to give one
pause. To appreciate
language. And this

libation I humbly
accept. An award
I embrace and 

am proud of. I [ah] can.

mdcxxii

Thank you for the photographs.
Is that button so difficult to un- 

button?  Chaste makes waste.

mdcxxi

Focus on my own
gloriously fucked-up
face in each photograph.
Is this a way to relive a
moment? As if I ask....

Dad’s plant smashed into a
meteor shower. Float on a
cushion of dreams (half-
naked knights in not-so-
shining armor). I get a

kick out of Ronald
Reagan stamps.

mdcxx

“Do you plan to use it up?”

Usefulness exceeded.  Take flying leap.
Directive (outward) or mantra (inward)
[Is the Buddha within?] at the Buddha?
Rat-tat-tat sometimes go bullets.  Two

pages in, I sigh.  Perhaps I can never
read again.  Water plants.  Pick up
quarters (off the street? out of gutters?).
Practice a soft and solemn laugh (short,

almost a chuckle).  Ever so slightly de-
press (contemplate depress) an aging
mattress (the aging mattress) that im-
prisons (eats?) dreams.  Yawn incoherently.

Wonder about dipping sauces (the lack thereof)
at Ananda Fuara.  And video monitors (the lack
thereof) picturing Sri Chinmoy (Masashi says
it’s because he’s dead now).  Pictures of him

everywhere, though.  Just none moving.  Does 

television exist anymore?  Cancel subscription.

mdcxix

“When I grow up, I want to be kara’age”

Yuki steals people’s hearts.
People turn off all artichokes.
(Pleadingly) I calm myself.
Kudos to Camille. Upstart

iPhone game competitor
gloriously stumped by
kudos. Udon for lunch.
Udon for dinner. Unable

to define friend. Someone in
Category 1 (subsection 2) sends
an abundance of photographs of his
new love. “Sexy, right?” Of course

he’s (photo-montage’s) my type. I’m
his (Cat1/Sub2’s) type. We saw each
state before each minted quarter. Found
altitude (yesterday) and altitude sickness.

There is glory in the scuffle. ALL HA 

IL pointing a finger at a loose emotion.

mdcviii (2)

Is everything a little bit okay? Write the pain (of/or

withdrawal). Or into it. Like a jetplane flies into its
business. Something that looks up and out. I’ll be
nude them. (This is not your forest of typos).

Interrupt with descendent of related algorithm. The word
underage used only as a metaphor. A flood of friends an
open floodgate (usually only TV or cinema with a Jake Shears
number onstage). Is it the male gaze that omits Ana Matronic

or...WHO DID THIS? [point blame; like photo and get berated
same afternoon for never looking at pictures “IT WENT UP
A MONTH AGO!!” – long pause...].... Who is this? Ger-
iatrics? [pleadingly] My forest?? Resign not to empathize

with hundreds of thousands. Negotiate birthright. Suck on
cheese sticks (after willingly picking from a variety of perhaps
more admirably or lustworthy choices that, if you were an item
in a refrigerator, you’d most likely be: a block of cheese). Los

Angeles, California (return address for American Express bill). 

A blurb by Eileen Myles. The remote control. Tiny leftovers.

mdcxvii

     When mother comes to murder me I’ll be in the shower
                                                               —Jim Behrle

My wings are tingling.  I have promised to call you.
I step in blindly.  But the phone keeps interrupting.
Text after text from the left.  Right?

Currently I feel good but I don’t know what best to do
with words.  Could it be that I want it?  This hamper
myself?  This less relevant (given the chance)?  Dust

in the wind.  All we are is a stack of books and a
long handwritten list (antique, almost) (all I am,
I mean).  And the evening and the morning were

Mazatlán.  Could somebody please tell me who I’m
talking to?  Is it the lady crossing Pine Street?  Or the
man at the drycleaners who always gives us peanuts?

I’m at a loss or am lost or am most likely just loss.
Currently I feel good.  To make me best.  A clothes
hamper in the hallway of some relevance.  A rainy

noontime.  More on this soon (given the chance).

mdcxvi

Should I update my profile to note that English is my
only language? Should I include my cell number
in case of emergencies (or if I’d like to also receive
text messages – added bonus)? Am I in danger of
becoming too sucked into THE NOW? In mock
horror, I go back to cataloging my digital photographs.
I’m up to September of 2008 (Oh, gay cruises! Oh, holy
Toledo! Oh, Boston baked beans and southern accents!).
Memory lane in 2,408 files (one month). I’m on my way
to somewhere. Thirty-one thousand two hundred and
seventy-nine postcards I’ve sent myself thus far. In case 

remembering can what? Equal a lifetime?

mdcxv

Nothing special about your referrals.

     I couldn’t figure out poot from whiz,
     and neither could my father, or his.
                                          —Albert Goldbarth

Is this really interesting? Phone rumors? Cavorted into a
marketing campaign designed to ready your wallet for what
might possibly be the latest in electronic biscuits some
several months into the ‘future’? Of course it is. This is

all too much. But please be kind enough not to ask if I
(myself) have stood in line for each incarnation, have
anticipated each’s demise a few days before the
warranty dissipates (conveniently around the same time

a new incarnation appears with glorious fanfare). Just
disregard. Right? What is this something new that I have
promised myself? Do I just step into it (on it)? Can I get
$550 in my checking account (the rent is due)? I dunno.

I have promised. No premeditation. And on Friday, as I
have promised. And I have promised. Is there nothing
special about faith? Are we descendants of roosters?
I eat another banana because it is in the bowl. Something

I try to forget is still going to happen in a couple of hours.
I open a Twitter account. I send Dean a picture from the
ceremony. I call Mom and reinstate movie nights. I start 

a new game like Scrabble with a friend 2,000 miles away.

mdcxiv

Awesome Online Cherries

     You show me a tropical fruit and I’ll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.
                                                                                              —George Carlin

So this is it?

On the way to the fireworks, somewhere between the barbecue and the coffee,

we pass a sign that gloats “Enjoy erotic aquatic adventures!” Everyone blurry

from broken glasses.

There’s music coming from the shower in a bathroom somewhere between
yoga and Diana. I’m just over here looking at pictures dead people took.
Of me. How to explain

it’s not the fame that I seek? How I got where I got (I am where I am)?
To simply (directly?) say something. To clean the bathroom, do another
penguin postcard for Kevin, purchase a tiny canvas for Otto (already

no secret). Up at 6:15am, job interview at 10:30am. How to be broke
and somehow ease out of financial services. Get quarters, pay bills,
be an industry.

4th of July. Nothing better to celebrate than a survey of George Carlin
on YouTube (extend all the way out to pre-bearded Carlin; even his
lopsided gay Native American gag a neuron-busting wonderment).

Walk to Ghirardelli Square with Otto & Erin to meet friends. Engage.
Meet more. Live long enough. Finish Bill’s tiny book, taking forever.
Even the fog refuses to make an appearance. Disappoint everyone by

leaving early—no need to stay for the fireworks. Life is good. If not 

downright awesome (amazing).

mdcxiii

New pen. Reading Lyn’s iteration of
Best American Poetry. The dots that
people our lives. The glorious futility
of intellect. This stuff I (almost must)
stand for without learning too much.
Too much a thing. Just as important
(or more). Obviously something is
already here. Someone walking a
Weimaraner. A great poem by
Charles Bernstein. Rotund puffs
of self-importance lemming for a
tweaked-out spotlight. So then
what? Do a possibility? Almost
(almost) artist? Be a selfish baby
or learn how to make one? Practice
perfect (intermittent) seizure? I

believe it is. I ink work and work
to school. I knit dress. I someone
journal. I vacate. And did I? Va-
cation? For the (I think) sixth
time? I might live a little longer
and (puff, self, cock, guff) look
back and (cringe?) (cringe?)?

Maybe no. Maybe no awe. 

Look back and awe.

mdcxii

     And who can square
     I want nothing at all
     with I want it all?
                   —William Corbett

No photographic memory here.
But I, too, remember the death
of the milk bottle. Was it slower
in Arkansas? Probably.

And Cecil, the driver of the
Wholesome Bread truck (my
mom would wave whenever our
Pinto crossed paths with his boxy
red truck).

Obviously something is already
here. Obviously. But what?
A Union Square Christmas tree?
An 11:20am meeting at Mont-
gomery Street Station (as Otto
heads from work to school)?
My pen running out of ink?
Love?

I believe it is.

I should be as important as
bad American poetry. A
selfish baby on these thoughts.
Why don’t believe in the
futility of persistence?

Then the stuff I stand for
without learning too much.
To get it out. Names names
names, some of whom jiggle a
bell, somewhere a tiny tinkle,
but mostly....
I 
A small hole through which
only the perfectly ignorant
can squeeze into. And, per- 

chance (AMAZEDLY), through.

mdcxi

     It’s hunger and territory
     although we choose to call it song.
                         —Birds by Albert Goldbarth

Too full of self?  Hello!  Self too full?
And he feels I pull him away from his
family.  What do I do, wondering about
vacation, Charles Bernstein, talking on
the telephone in a knit dress?

We are poverty and war?  A
month without a newsblip
sifting cartoon sand with
blistered feet, the (pixelated?)
facade of Notre Dame as backdrop.

Stupid telescope.

I’m reading Bill’s Columbus Square Journal
for (I think) the sixth time.  Someone’s
walking a Weimaraner in front of me, left to
right.  Otto’s going to “hip hop.”

The world is calling out (like innocuous bird-
song: to what?  to whom?  to what?  to whom?).
Something is already here.  Is it intent?  Is it
intelligent?  And, if so, translatable?
Structured?  Cacophonous?

Is it me?

mdcx

fluent in blasphemy
                   —Stacy Blint

I’m drinking a latté at Borders
and I go by X. What do I do
about this?

Are your friends bizarre, too?

mdcix

Nice Rapture

By now I am super fucked up.  My
rental car is towed, I’ve a third of a
dollar, and a day in court.  How is
anyone supposed to know if I am
the one, anyway?  And who is this
Forever?  Does he resent your
always having to know where
he is?

Pull away from the family
that is always running out of ink.

mdcviii

Marching beside me I felt that breast of onion!
                                                —Kenneth Koch

I’m all trying to be objective & help.  Then he tells me
he masturbated 6 times in a row last night!  Scrub floors,
clean kitchen, contact Western Digital for access to my own
server.  I’ve got Los Angeles of the mind and I keep hearing
electricity in vivid colors.  & my angels are merciless.  Nay,
ruthless!  Then I realize it’s coming from my own desk;
my electronics are against me.  In some sort of electro-
nics blow-up.  I cover my job grid and get ready to
water the plants.  The birds are downstairs and
there’s shampoo in the oven.  The birds.
My angels, the beautiful birds.

mdcvii

Perhaps I’ve kicked the illusion.

Like zonko! Perhaps it’s all bad, all water
under the fountain. Why worry?

I go for a walk because Nature is so almost
perfect (Camille Roy). Donuts on Polk

Street nature. I bone up on headaches. Men-
tal nausea reduces depression. I mean. Like

Slam the door like a stomach! Sue Rosen
said this on June 10th in 1957. At least I

think that’s what she said. I wasn’t there.
Suddenly, it’s so interesting to me how

anything can end with a sentence. A
dream, a delusion, a character you

never wanted killed, Judge Judy....
I’m counting the animals in the room.

There’s a rooster on the top shelf (we’ve
a few of them; & we prefer ‘cock’), a

dinosaur next to a bunch of bunnies (from
outer space), a couple of lions (matching

bookends but on two separate bookshelves),
and Coco, nestled among the wires next to the

mega-multi-power-plug under my desk. It’s
the middle of my 10-day birthday and I’m playing

scrabble with friends and strangers. It’s nearly
one in the afternoon. I have yet to shower. I’ve a

page full of ‘to do’ items and I’m surrounded by 

piles of books. It is clearly a gorgeous day.

mdcvi

What can I say?  What’s the point of this melancholy brain fart.
Maybe I should write a poem about it.
                                                                        —Camille Roy

“Not history – fuck! – I mean our presidency – fuck! – nevermind.”
I’m too exhausted to even trail off into nothingness.  And this time it’s
politics?  Such a bummer.

For the most part I’m still reeling from a conversation I had 2 nights ago.
Til 2:30.  He says he doesn’t know how long – no – whatever.

Sleep.  Snore.  He doesn’t know?       DOWNER!

I’ve never thought of birthdays as tragic. Perhaps I’ve killed the illusion.

mdcv

I have gotten a bit carried away with making things happen.

     Now I am bleeding,
     my mouth especially.
              —Linda Norton

But I’ve never been in a fist fight.  A rite of passage, per my
late father.  An appropriate and meaningful stepping stone to
manhood.  Although I have been chased around my own apartment
by a person wielding a broomstick.  And I have... ... ... ...

Feeling ... not so good?  A little down?  I want to be able to look
hopefully into the future.  My outlook is generally on the plus side,
right?  And I live almost every moment with a metaphorical (imaginary?)
encouraging nudge (for me and the growing number of folks I...)
and a slobbering grin.  It seems to work.  It’s incomprehensible
walking around in a cloud of negativity.

Brunch on Saturday with Chris who talks about attending a fight recently
in Thailand.  Kids.  Talking about what a bloody mess it was (I picture
cockfighting, a ‘sport’ to which a close relative of mine has considerably
‘given.’  Kevin, a classmate from 1st thru 12th grade, who committed
suicide some time ago, and some guy I forget, stirring up a whole lot of dust
behind the Circle M at lunch break back in high school.  My father’s eyes glued
to Muhammad Ali’s fists on television. Tying a tooth to a doorknob and 

slamming the door just to get the damned thing out of my mouth.)....

The mouth of a penitent liar.

I’m so sorry.  These limbs forget the bloodshed they’ve caused.  Stupid limbs.

Brilliant limbs.  Whichever the case, I will not be blind.  Or that is my aim. 

War is inevitable.  It’s a lousy day.  I still hope for tomorrow.

mdciv

Fog leather?

No, something more serious
than that. But serious is serious;
it’s all I seem to know any more.

I have already forgotten the day before
yesterday (haircut, check between sheafs of
paper for important but secret information),
close out the rest of the world.

     btw, are we txting?
     bc u never responded to my txt

The world is un-close-out-able. The coils in my
neck tighten to reduce my line of sight but a pair of eyes
has already emerged behind my ears. My filters are
inadequate, to say the least.

mdciii

...but when a hurricane blows into town you don’t
notice the breeze any longer, does it even exist?
                                                    —Kevin Killian

Ensconced in Schuyler’s letters. Something in me
I can’t quite let out (envision mystery steam). A
block away something fantastic is happening.

Otto says he loves days like these, he closes his eyes
to the cool breeze and imagines he’s flying. We’re
walking up the hill from Woody Allen who is

taunting us with namedropping and literary trivia
designed to both skewer and embrace the
bourgeoisie. He never catches up with us.

We’re discussing inevitability. I mean infidelity.
In the future I won’t watch Nip / Tuck but instead
Battlestar Galactica. I wait months between

each of the last several episodes, not wanting to
finish. Later, I chat with my aunt in Missouri.
She’s pacing in front of a storm cellar watching

wood fall from the sky (and reporting such via
status update). A few miles from her, Joplin gets
blown away. Back in outer space, where weather

doesn’t exist, we’re discussing irreconcilable.
And Indonesia. The funeral full of women
with whom he’d been ‘unfaithful’ (was this

my father or a movie?) and crying buckets
(which is what we’re doing presently at
Cafe Mason). The super sexy Italian waiter

still works here, I think. I call the other
Larry to wish him a happy 25th birthday.
My hand and fingers feel crampy as I

stare at a bottle of wine. I concur, it’s
nice weather we’re having. I don’t fly, 

but just sort of lean into the cool breeze.

mdcii

Then why do I write stories like eroded holes?
                                                   —Camille Roy

Sometimes it’s all about the context. Other times
it’s all about the game. Either way, biography
is always fiction. Each composite mask is, naturally,
impossible to control or to define, particularly by its
adorner, its “owner” (its purported “creator”). This is
not only eureka but religion (I speak personally, through
the holes in my own). If HONESTY is the utmost (yet
impossible) goal, we can gush (with humility!) at
each step forward, each tiny evolution toward the
(unachievable) reconciliation of our red interiors with
our visible exteriors. My truth is a shambles (a scene
or condition of complete disorder or ruin; a great clutter
or jumble; a total mess; a slaughterhouse). Truth can be
proactively discovered, can be accidentally stumbled upon,
can be purchased for a sum, can arrive piped innocuously
through a soundsystem in a mall or a building elevator,
can be thrown at you with the intention to cause injury,
can breathe heavily at you during a suspenseful dream,
can be delivered by a mailman, or can land on your
shoulder like a bird – can comfort you or freak you out.
No delivery method should be judged harshly. This is a
nerve-clustered masquerade. Awareness is imperative.
Soundly seek the holes in your environment (it’s good
practice to vary your settings with an over-achieving
frequency); approach each with equal amounts of
caution and optimism, pausing to experience its 

vibration (a hole’s ‘fingerprint,’ if you will).

mdci

     I read everyone’s twitter and felt so connected
                                                 —Jim Behrle

What are you derived from? What derives you?

I don’t joke with strangers anymore. Except about

Jennifer Lopez. To whom I’m now deeply indebted.

I’m feeling giddy. I do write. Sitting in front of $50.

U2 album in boarded Borders still reverberates (a

storyboard for a final class project). Daydreaming

the wired charm of inelegant disclosure while

looking out at the big Christmas tree in Union

Square. I’m reading Iduna, insufficiently lit,

thinking of kari on my couch, a housewarming

on Bush Street. Determine when unemployment

ends, laundry, water plants, sunglasses for the L.A.

trip. Losing two pairs of prescription sunglasses

in one week. I keep broaching the subject (in-

delicately, insecurely) that is the false victim of

our loudnesses to a blanket of silence, very Zen.

A swamp of desperation ensues, becomes louder

lies or mumbled nothingnesses. A conversation

with the California Street sidewalk stippled with

unintentional vibrato (tragedic, operatic). Wreaked

with uncontrollable shivers, a body heaves such a

melody.  Tomorrow, the calm swans of Boston.

mdc

I Mean It

The urgent violence that is honesty
calls me out of a long nap, like a
cat smashed between a row of books
and a wall. If one describes oneself as
charming? And then ducks back into a
hut, pencils I’m so frightened of losing?

I used to be sober when I was serious.
The mental capacity to stomach en-
joyment.

That was wild. Slowly I take each
book out of the bag, stack them on
the table, become a person who wants to
hide his true self.

Nothing is the right way. Just a smile
to enjoy. The delight of a mustache
over a drink of cool water. Shopping
for groceries (frightened of losing).

It’s a shame, this grasping of my red
interior. Nobody’s mouth to put a
finger on (to shush). What’s a list for,
anyway?

I appreciate a residential neighborhood
I can call my own. The ironic beauty of
certain vandalisms. A capacity for with-
holding evidence. The smell of a
freshly mown lawn.

It was a narrow escape. We clutch our 

hearts. Enjoy the walk. Enjoy the ride.

mdxcix

Almost the Exact Quote

Here the snow bleeds clouds. Such
happiness to be taken on a ride
in a train with a penny engine.

The toys in this dream are binary.
Chalk-colored coal or coal-colored
chalk. I enjoy it immensely because

now I want to build something bigger.
Bright face of such happiness, why can’t I
enjoy more? [Complacently moving from

Point A to Point B] Why am I frightened of losing

or of just being along for the ride? I don’t want
to want nothing but am overwhelmed or

bloated with wanting. Instantly I want also
something else. I write it down. The page
says hello, forcing my gaze out the window. I get

distracted by an American flag and page 1 of
Yoga for Dummies. I live with a pink bear
who wears a very tall crown made of paper.

mdxcviii

Of course.

Refusing to switch off the attention diversion switch:
booted beings one floor above; slow gait.

They left!
They fell asleep.  They’re watching football.  I am...
breathing.

Are you spreading yourself too thin?  Of course.
Of possible interest: constantly evacuating yourself.

No!  No!  They are walking again!  Very slowly.
And they have invited more boots.  Boot-beings
entertaining more boot-beings.  Boots, party of
[impossible to accommodate]!

Page 1 of Zen for Dummies.  A book with
his dorky picture next to mine.  A terrapin.
A terrapin?

Constantly evaluating.  I am constantly
evaluating myself.  I am a failure.  What have
I ever built or unbuttoned?  A chainsaw film with
tall green creatures adorned solely with boots.
Appropriately gargantuan.  Chestnut brown or
slightly ash-colored.  Suede boots.

Earth is in utter chaos.  It is a horrific invasion.
Soon (before the demise of our race) we
identify with these gigantic (Grinch-like)
beings.  They are sympathetic characters.

mdxcvii

     Nominated for an Ernest Borgnine
                                       —Kit Robinson

This morning we all went to the gym together.
We observe money.  It talks gibberish.  It smells so
good.  It is such a perfect thing to do.

We live here.  Who am I to say how you should
perform in this circus?

After yesterday, spending it all, lighting another
fire under it, we are whisked away.  To the
movies.

The desire to mean something when you are told
that you only have 164 gigabytes available.  Chasing a
hummingbird all over the city (clutching a very heavy
camera).

In times like these I almost convince myself.  I am a
delusion.  I’m a book with his dorky picture next to mine.
I am giddy.

It is Christmastime.

     It’s easy enough to start
     to make two lumps of coal: just close your eyes. 

                                                          —Albert Goldbarth

mdxcvi

Read with Robot Voice

In forty minutes is the beginning of my birthday
which will last ten days. Eleven more years until I am 

“go go” ... (so I get started in eleven years)

mdxcv

Scar 2

Scary words with friends.  I miss
scoring a lot of points being twisted.
Like Bela Lugosi, maybe (as played by
Joaquin Phoenix?), picking snot out of
children’s eyes.  His own children’s, perhaps.
But we’re all caught unawares and
flunking Celebrity 101 (is it still

one-oh-one?).

With dull faces we’re back to our
commitment to the community:
See Dick dunk pail in ale.  See
Jane pour pail on head as if
[Whoops!] hat and fall pell-
mell down hill [Whoops!].

Sean mentions a writer friend
who avoids punctuation (&
other emotica) because the
WORDS should do all the
WORK.

A fiery apostrophe ensues.

Signed,
Forty and Flailing


P.S.  In perhaps twenty minutes I can
       forty-fie the ass-end of this blah
       beast with a bit more [upside-down 

       exclamation point] FLOURISH !  (Yeh?)

mdxciv

I Lost My Drycleaning at a Birthday Party

And ever since I’ve been working on them,
speaking of 2.5 years ago.  I’m up to 144
now and still caring.  But he can make me turn
from ‘all is glorious’ to MONSTER in half an
hour (wild exaggeration).

[The opposite of hyperbole is __________.]

I trust the way Sean makes me feel all
wrong at dinner.  I’m in such a better place now.
Particularly diary entries.

Scuttlebutt is an aphrodisiac.  At least for me.
These things come and go to make us more
interesting.  Such a perfect thing to do

after spending all day with the in-laws.
Can they legally fire me for that?

I hate to ask but is it okay that I like guys?
I know we don’t stumble into each other
very often.  It’s like a

birthday gift, speaking of two and a half
years ago.  That’s what I say, C Monster.


Dear Sigmund,

I know it’s confusing & all.  But you’re the
best bunch of zeroes a guy could ever ask for.
Am I dreaming?

             & a guy like me, 

             HogsYerKisses (not my usual screenname)

mdxciii

Stop the Sludge!

I see no pretense in David except an
opulently intense desire to control his
image.

These aren’t teardrops.  It’s just
water from the fountain here.

Awaken to an aspirin onslaught.  All of this
fooling around at one-four-four.  Men in
gas masks shouting ‘One-Four-Four,

One-Four-Four,’ and a jerk to signify
‘Take him away!’

At four minutes to two, I have a
phone interview in an hour.  Or an
hour and four minutes.

Let’s make it five.

mdxcii

Words with Friends

Dear June,

Your snapdragons are killing me! I say,
we are quite a perfect pair. Are you not
on fire?

I live the life of Riley. What a loser, I tell you,
with my chicken noodle and my apple enzyme.

This is heady but I’m tacit. And you’ve got glam
despite the divots. Have another Strawberry C?

[I sweat through my issues envisioning a MASTER.]

And each with our own wonderful qualities. Make me
turn on a dime from ‘all is glorious’ just to maintain our
dark side.

This is a liquid photograph. Here, have a sip like a
chorus of frogs (bag clips).

Change our astor into a name like Numb. Work
collaboratively until it will end (possibly).

A mum is a chrysanthemum is what the lady told me.

                                      Luv & gladiolas, 

                                      SleepsWithOak (is not my screenname)

mdxci

A heart beat is a unit of measure like an ice cube
                                               —Kit Robinson

I say we’re quite a perfect pair. A peach of a pear
(and he laughs). I ask if he’ll draw raindrops all over
the umbrella (in the future he gets up from his desk
in the kitchen and walks into the living room). I
finish a giant cake and ask for more raindrops.

mdxc

Multiple Orgasms

A routine he’s revived recently which I LOVE.
A scrubdown shortly after he walks into my
office and flips his lid. All these umbrellas &
no twist? So point is I was very happy this
morning. Which has nothing to do with
death or dying, right? Turn the page and
this is it? So I go back to the old dreams,
the ones I can remember. There are so
few of them. In one, here I am. In
another, he’s already and finally
apologized. I am envisioning
he is a monster. I like monster
in several of its constructs. But
not in the movie The Hangover Part II.

While vacationing in Hong Kong
and Tokyo (two weeks apiece,
a little over a year apart), whenever I’d
mention I was vacationing (and a whole
two weeks?!) the response would in-
evitably be: So why are you vacationing
here? Why aren’t you in Thailand?

Next year I won’t remember any of this.
So I rename it Flying By the Seat 

of My Pants. Which I LOVE.

mdlxxxix

I could talk to you for flowers
                   —Kit Robinson

Tonight is feeling social. So it is
disclosed. He proposes an open
relationship because he’s missed
out. I haven’t. Such is the stuff

that’s always about rings. And me
with such knobby fingers. I keep want-
ing Buddhism or a unique way to
disclose something important.

Like love. Only. Flash (Gordon)
forward and I’m grasping at
ludicrous constructs. Down on
my knees. And not for flogging.

All this fooling around is so innocent
by comparison. [Bow head; silence.]

mdlxxxviii

     what i really want
     is to scatter
     my own
     ashes
               —CAConrad

I’m having too much fun to
pick the day I’ll die. Can
that be right? It’s Tuesday
after a strong Saturday
night. No ashes but a
ring of wires aching for
fantasy eardrums. Some-

times it’s creepy what I
predict. Or how creepy-
poignant it is to pick up a
page written some[times
an hornery] distance ago 

and then to experience 

its eerie resonance;

say, the day after a
nuclear disaster,
for example. Or

and I was dancing
and I nearly had...
a time warp? A
Rubik’s Cube
staring at another
Rubik’s Cube
in some sort of a
stand-off (or 3
Rubik’s...Cubed)?
Softer back-

pedaling and
less disclosure.
Or don’t sweat
the small stuff.
I’m getting
way too
serious,
lately.

I’m taking
everything
so seriously.

mdlxxxvii

Woe is...


No, I don’t want any.


Yes, I want some.


No, I don’t want any.


Yes, I want some.


No, I don’t want any.


Yes, I want some.


No, I don’t want any.


Yes, I want some.

mdlxxxvi

Worst time for a lisp issue.

Set up like so—in relation to where the
tit sits.  Teeth of an undisclosed number.

Fogroll.  Argue about the crotchet, an
odd or stubborn notion, in the fogroll.

Issue a Steven for a one on one.  Crawl out
on top.  Find myself in anything I can’t

enjoy reading.  Take off your glasses
and compare to Kenneth’s.  Last night

after Nip / Tuck.  Too much going on
to talk about.  Or something like that.

Do you think this is demeaning in any
way answers a broader question.  Be

the one you are.  The worst time to
sleep is between eleven in the morning

and one in the afternoon.  Set up 

the soup in relation to the teeth.  Sit.

mdlxxxv

Retreat!

Because Bush won the erection?

mdlxxxiv

BTW

Retreat! Get myself together is a more
comprehensive life list. That is what
6 reasons I am depressed is for. I have
no morals? Because I may be a boyfriend?

Anyway, I’m boring. Who doesn’t have the
freedom he wants because he weighs too
much? Because he still loves haters? Be-
cause he got high last weekend and started

calling old flames (to go out drinking or
whatever because I downloaded way too much
poet)? Because I am a lousy goal? Who isn’t?
Because winning the election cannot reach his

goals? Because no motivation to get out of the
city? Because he wants a massage? Who isn’t?

mdlxxxiii

A Cirrus Clown

Time, corrosive time. On the
airplane of love. With an
envelope. It’s an old house

of pills. Time, explosive
time. Event unnecessary.
Burgeoning spirit. Sync

in progress. A cloudful
of unbalanced nectar.
Of unenveloped loam.

A beautiful rainy day
full of go home and
Arafat dead. Walk

up the hill and write.
9:05am. The pen-
ultimate chapter

of Stevens. It’s
not a strike now.
Triple latté dis-

infectant.

mdlxxxii

So As Not To

Repetition. Thor ate a
whole box of Pop Tarts
and was still hungry.

I used to do that.

mdlxxxi

We are easy.

     hormonal convergence
                        —Erika Staiti

Me on the battlefield definitely
killing. You can kiss me. I
brushed my teeth. Classic Crest.

But what you can’t see is my
glass of milk. On (or slightly
after) Mother’s Day. At the

exact location of electricity.
It’s symptomatic of what’s
going on. I went one time

to buy a little thing of goat
cheese. The crackers them-
selves were four-fifty. It’s

ridiculous. I’ll go without.

mdlxxx

A surly hoverer.

Art from Rosencrantz. Harold the
Tribune. Jesus of Combinations.
Jesus of Gaol. Something to
get me excited to look at
job options, Japanese or
Chinese.  Some way to
meet new people, simply
plan a trip. Probably not
the best idea, like a condo.
How to approach REALIST. A
tic above any and all, falling all
over myself doing it (ART). The
ART the ART the ART. What is it?
How is Bill? All this New York School
stuff (How is Brainard? How is Padgett?).
Keep delving seventy-something years. What
is all over our faces? Death? Being the writer?
Aware, written all over our reconcile, go home,
could come tomorrow. And write nothing better,
this beautiful rainy day. Very rainy (like Raney, 

on my father’s mother’s side). 

A very hard rain.

mdlxxix

Import Mail and Contacts (NEW!)

     Your Fun Is a Snob
             —a Kenneth Koch poem title

Also, If you miss someone that’s in heaven,
put this as your status. But somehow wrap it in
hearts and double lines. I keep meaning to change
my picture (averaging a loss of 1.5 friends per day).

I look at other guys sometimes. Are they not worth
it?

Also, thank you for this week’s issue (lying atop my
laptop this morning). My favorite word on the cover
is INEPTITUDE. But also DISASTER.

None are sacrificial or spousal problems. I worry about
my age in relation to death. Something is certainly up.

I don’t worry worry worry (like this probably sounds).