mmccxxii

optical illusion

can’t fit into the

story anymore

but yet it’s

impossible

to display on

a single page. 

with what...

complexity...

this day-to-day.

mmccxxi

small town with a huge marquee.
water and sewer superintendent
of the 20th century. star football
player enters dramatic theatrical
foray: plays lead male in senior play 

opposite gramma. whom he barely
knew. except with whom he had
(for a variety of unrelated reasons,
reportedly) often found himself red-
faced in argument. dapper red-face
often contorted into a look of utter
bewilderment. could skew more at
stupefaction. for numerous reasons.
but who, gramma, in the play, would
say something (more strict from the
script but, pointing finger, to the tune
of) ‘i’m gonna keep my eyes on you, mister,
even if i have to stare at your face from
across our kitchen table every breakfast-
dinner-supper every gosh-durn day for the
rest of my life.’ seventy or so years later
she meant those words script-free,
all inside her body and especially
way down into her heart, no longer
just in character in some small-town
production. even though her 1940s
were now tucked neatly into a dime-
store novel that could only be reached
by beckoning the airwaves. even he’d
been gone already for a decade. of
that grand story and its long run
on east main street, sixty years of
no small-town marriage, she’d be
happy to remind anyone who cared
until she repaired her crooked joints
down into the sunken bed beside him.

mmccxx

Yes I’m a maniac when I’m touching the earth.
             —Hardwell (from Call Me A Spaceman)

extra shrimp dumplings.
a little joke, but true. we
were truly schnookered. 

[return carriage]

mmccxix

If it were the hour of the bird
you’d open and know
the eternal moment
       —Orides Fontela (translated by Chris Daniels)

...hoodwinked into eating
at a big red restaurant
full of white people
and waiters & waitresses
who insisted we order
way more than we wanted...

...extra spring rolls (free)
for the tableful of nuns...

...he stops [as always]
to examine the dead
pigeon; reckons it
could be what’s left
of the howling from
the night before...

But what use is the bird?
      —Orides Fontela (translated by Chris Daniels)

mmccxviii

Birds
return
always and
always.
         —Orides Fontela (translated by Chris Daniels)

Loyal as the day is long,
he found his way home
wearing nothing but a
pair of Twister® flip-flops.

mmccxvii

bring me your youth in a jar
                        —Kevin Killian

If I were to relate this to myself,
as I sit here next to a bright red
package of 20 hypoallergenic
Wet Ones.

Words...evoke inarticulate things.
                —Rachel Blau DuPlessis

I’m sort of putting words in her
mouth. Just by leaving a few out.
So to speak. Or maybe not.

It learned to hide from the hungry ones.
                               —Shel Silverstein

Which is more to the point.
So bring me your mouth, youth!
Bring me all of your words in a jar.

mmccxvi

If Dr. H had been the Chair
of the Poetry Department (if 

such a department even exists there,

I admit that I don’t even know.), rather

than the Chair of the Theatre
Department at my undergraduate
college. Let’s say. And if I, the
overly-confident and determined
undergraduate junior, had made an
appointment with her, and on that
appointed hour had then walked
into her office with the proclamation
that my one true goal above all else 

in my life was to someday pen a poem 

that would find its way into a
very important compendium of 

the sort that is often touted as 

a compendium that houses
several very important works
(of this or that poetic nature),
well,       I can hear her say to me
as if it were this precise moment:
           “But young man,
what do you know of Poetry?”
She’d know, of course,
that I had been a chemistry
major for the previous two
years. “What you’re telling me
certainly isn’t Poetry. Talk to me
about Poetry. You must most
certainly know that you are not
reciting for me a Poem. No.
What you’re telling me now is
nothing but a silly & ultimately
penniless dream.” And she’d
bite this part off through
teeth that are clenching the
spindly end of one of the
thin, golden, ear-hugging arms
of those Ben Franklin specs,
“And it’s not a very
effective dream,
I might insert.”

mmccxv

as once I wanted to write for the soaps, Santa Barbara, One Life to Live.
                                                                          —Kevin Killian
If I were to relate this to myself
it would be easy. I have two
degrees in theater. I caught
the acting bug early, but
hemmed and hawed my
way through most of
college (a chemistry
major, mostly), before
one very determined
visit to the head of the
Department of Drama.
My goal was simple
(“If they could do it,
why couldn’t I?” I had
surmised, using all 

means of logic):  I
wanted to land a job
as an actor on a daytime
soap opera. That was it.

Putting aside for the moment
whatever I must have been
thinking, however I must
have arrived at it, I do
distinctly recall the
clarity of vision, the
this is my one true goal.

She kept trying to see it in me,
I could tell. She was squinting,
leaning back in her roll-around
chair, looking me up and down
through her tiny circular Benjamin
Franklin lenses. She had friends who
made a living doing exactly that. My goal.
So I figured I had come to the right place,
and had expected a cheery vote of confidence
and encouragement.
What I got, instead, after
all of her apparent consideration,
was a simple “But you don’t look the part.”

I have never once appeared in
any televised soap opera. But
as I mentioned at the top,
I do have two degrees
in the dramatic arts.

mmccxiv

Not showing up mostly didn’t show up.

                               —Stephanie Young

Like a kick in the guts.  Or.  No.

Like a bullet to a tongue.  But.  Then.

mmccxiii

everybody feels vulnerable I think.

                               —Stephanie Young

I’ve been finding it just fine

playing games on my iPhone

while in the shower — for

months now I do this.  Not

every shower.  But most?

Today, therefore and

however, I am mostly

troubled by the fact

that I cannot do the

same with a book.

With a real book.

mmccxii

less willow more buffy sounds

beautiful. i roll over and back to

sleep.  think good thoughts much

as they can be thunk.  (no need

not to.)

nighty night for now.

mmccxi

How to make sure that seeing

anything is not seeing oneself?

                                   —Etel Adnan

My assignment stayed

extremely busy.  I am

staring into a blowing

electric fan.  As if

face to face in love.

Stuck on repeat,

my assignment

never lazes,

leaves the room,

blown by the

sound of the

howling wind,

which eradicates,

as if face to face,

the love, the

howling, the

echo of the

blown

electric

fan.

mmccx

forty-seven years ago today

i was supposed to be born.

but instead, i’d already

been around for three

whole days by then.

mmccix

but you said, didn’t you

say to me, that this was

a moment when i could

start completely anew?

a time i could start

fresh, could liter-

ally reinvent my

self?  and were

we not just

agog with

all of the...

possibility?

mmccviii

 [insert comma here]

            Even activists must freak out sometimes about how little we’ve done.

                                                                                                  —Kevin Killian

I’m not exactly sure how to put this, but

it’s Tuesday morning.  I have no idea

how to say this, but the potpourri really

stinks.

We arrive on motorcycle, all black &

white.  It’s Easter Sunday.  The aunties

arrive on motorcycle, dressed to the

nines, circa 1959.

The tenants began to grow suspicious

when the scaffolding remained up

for longer than a month.

mmccvii

Word Battle

Scupper

Dimmest

Ably

Male

“You’re such a person!  Such a person!,”

I thought (“You give everyone just the

right imagination to be less than

bland...”).  And then, as if it were

1975 all over again, I

actually attempted to

hang up the phone.

Scupper

Dimmest

Ably

Male

mmccvi

5 Ways to Move

You verbally acknowledge
nothing, ask “Why do
goth people all look
so sleepy?” I shudder,
wondering on which side
of the fence you meant
that to be. This creepy
slide-show has been
such a gas, but we’re
both exhausted and
hankry (as you say,
being both hungry
and cranky). To
get here, I’d limped
the entire way, half
a block behind you.
Whew! A San Fran-
cisco taxi-cab oasis
isn’t a mirage.
Cab-light on or
off, it’s always
a gamble. You
were waving for
miles; refusing,
however, to show
a lick of leg. Fetish-
wise, that’s how the
cookie always crumbles.
My sigh is just a little too
audible, seems to cook the
spirits of the glazed-over.
“A ratchet, a whisper,”
again, just barely into my
ear—a feather duster,
not a french tickler—
“another ratchet,
another whisper.”

mmccv

Maybe I got so angry because secretly, stubbornly, and in exhaustion,

I couldn’t see any other way to proceed, to fail until something

changed.

                                                                      —Stephanie Young

Will the narrator ever fly again?

                            —Michael Burkard

I’m more mixed up than ever before, going

back and forth among different eras, landing

in multiple time zones, sometimes seemingly

all at once.  Here I am, an iris.  Here I am, a

dahlia.  There I was.......                a begonia.

mmcciv

Your Independence Is Killing Me!

Yesterday, I stopped at my checking account,
but apparently I got lost after that. Did I
a) clean the apartment considerably? It
could be that I considered cleaning the
apartment. That is, on a scale of 1 to 10,
extremely messy at the moment. This,
and that 10 equals b), should be
your biggest clue.

I like that I live here. Also the immediate
retort (or often more like a snort) of
“Snob Hill” (more like, simply, an upturned
nose, as if directly after becoming ill, or ill-
informed, someone just gets it). Beams
all strange, but, you know, beams,
walking with the students on Pine Street,
which is most of the faces I ever see.
Those dogs are pugs, and they are
probably mostly students at the Academy
of Art.

Would I really know? I only speak with
Tony at the cash register down the block,
and with cabbies to and from. Not the 

block. But, in general.

One could draw out a pretty long argument
about most of the students of the Academy
of Art, of course; it’s never too early to
cast your case. I’ve taken to verbalizing
this and other probabilities when my
lower back is so tightly wound with pain
that I can’t even walk away from formality.

I’ve been rudely informed that it’s time.
For me to sit down a bit. Or if I said
“for a spell” – you know, rather than
“a bit” – this chronic lover that speaks
of nothing but pain. “Bring him his chair
full of cake and rubber you
colossally glum sacrum; you
bitch-hound of an art-
hritic coccyx!”

“In absentia.”
“In absentia.”

mmcciii

I Never Saw It Coming

I spilled the entire box of

cotton swabs onto the

bathroom floor this

morning while

listening to my

new favorite song,

which is called,

appropriately

enough, The Rising.

And I was feeling

so much more on

top of things, too,

having won nearly

every round of

Word Battle

that I’ve played

this week.

I should learn

to scrutinize the

evidence much

better, because

later, after what

I thought’d been

a successful attempt

to rally back my mojo,

I go to meet Otto for

dinner at Sam Wo’s

in Chinatown—in honor

of the Chinese New Year—

and wouldn’t you know it

but Sam Wo’s is closed.

For Chinese New Year.

mmccii

Stand Up and Be Counted!

It’s like being on the toilet.

You don’t know what’s

going to come out.  But

it usually does.  Imagine

that getting lost in

translation.  Say it

like you mean it,

then!  (riding

a stationary

‘bicycle’ easily

for 20 minutes)

mmcci

and then there was you

by which I of course mean me

mmcc

I’m on assignment
in a time unfolding.
Breaking myself
in order to awaken.
Broken down open eye.


     But that space is also an epiphany.
                                   —Etel Adnan


Head in the clouds is
where I’m heading.
Already there, I
truly suppose, if
one can ever sup-
pose so truly. A
song in my eye
or ear (awaken)
called Anxiety.


     And all along I thought you’d
     made me drop my mind
     somewhere along the way.
                                   —Just Another Cloud


Charlie Darker
renders it such,
this Anxiety.

Do go darker,
Charlie, says
where I’m
heading,

head
and should-
ers and all.

mmcxcix

What a Relief!

Isn’t it odd
that I don’t
just labyrinth?
But nope.

And what a
power week
I’m having.
Eating daily,

focused [on
redundant],
centered.
Some time

passes,
which is
either good
or bad, but

whichever,
there is a
bottle of
Perrier,

and I am
the oldest.
The eldest.
And yet

working
out, checked
out, checking
out.

mmcxcviii

Don’t You Dare Act Up!

Drinking a lemon zinger
in this tight-ass box
I wonder what’s
so wrong with
living the life
of an escape
artist.

Escape artist.
Escarpment.

Odd, these
memories,
how they
labyrinth
at twilight.
So at odds
with feeling

[Vertigo.
Escargot.]

so high the
entire time.
Check myself
in the mirror. The
enormous salad
I’m going to
eat in an hour.

mmcxcvii

Duh. Rhetorical questions.
                 —Rachel Blau DuPlessis

I don’t do worst. Except
“A book is the goal,” (sigh)
“...but not just any book.”
Okay. Then what? Again,
rhetorical. Bombastical
(see “flatulant”) (and other
words I mean to remember,
like “prolix”, “garrulous”,
“fustian”) (well, that one’s
easy), and the always con-
fusing, my “high-flown”.

“How did we ever get here?”
I fawn with prolix emphasis.
I mean influence. I mean
interest. Which, of course,
often includes no mere
titbit of inferred insolence.
And, in groups of more than,
say, eight or nine, quite a
wide variety of
unchecked impotence.

And that, Dear Heart,
more often than not,
is tediously prolonged.

mmcxcvi

It’s Okay to Act Out

We are offered various
options for which to
relieve ourselves.
One is too random.
Slow down again.

10:30am, an
escapist, alive.
What’s wrong
with checking
online? Star-

dust in a tight-ass
box. Run on the
mill. Or through
it. Putting the
bills into a bag.

I tried to sit
in Union Square
to finish the
half-poem/
half-novel,

but instead
I went to
Borders and
spilled my latté.
The story of me.

mmcxcv

I’m working.
He’s just
waiting for
the rapture.

Nah, I ran
one mile
uphill.
Stop

here.
That’s
it. We
met in

the middle
to catch
up—or
else to

catch a
breath. Or
call it a
weekend.

mmcxciv

Day of _______

A way to start
communication.
Think outside
the box must
have never
meant this.
But irksome,
texting and
obsessive
attention
compulsion.
This year,
already like
no other:
$565.89.
Dumb
words
for to-
day,
already
May.

mmcxciii

Slave Labour

I realize only sometimes
that I should step back and
remind you about something.
But I forget why I’m here.

Perhaps that’s what I
meant to tell you
in the first place.

mmcxcii

Omission Is Honesty

     Remarkable perspicacity from Jesus, in this instance.
                     —Russell Brand (commenting on a depiction of
                                             Jesus wearing a necklace of thorns)

This box gets smaller
and smaller. Every-
body screaming is
me feeling trapped,
but [I gesture toward
reality]...

Everyone seems
frightened. A
song called
Ascension

bumps into one
named Now You’re
Mine. Why attempt,
as a musician, to exhibit
vocal range, lyrical
sophistication,
and/or subtlety?

I didn’t finish
that thought.
Moreso,
checking
account.

And seeing
stars after
bending
slightly
over.

mmcxci

I talk you listen is
not a communication.

The coterie is
on hiatus. A

therapist
to remind you

that you’re a
writer, write

about it. Or
would I rather

just sit here,
depressed and

anxious. Diag-
nosed with panic

disorder?
(S. Young)

Here it is,
an occasion

in May.
Here I am,

waiting for
dollars.

Transcendence
in the wire transfer.

mmcxc

(This Poem Is Called) The Government Is Insane

And I wrote it.  I don’t
mind you passing it along.
They already know anyway.
Because I sit in luxury
upon a bed strewn with
books.

In the mail today was a
mail-in ballot. There’s
an upcoming election.
I know this because in
the mail today there was
a mail-in ballot for the
upcoming election.

Also in the mail was a
voter registration form.
That seemed appropriate.
Especially since it came
addressed from the Cali-
fornia Affordable Care
folks.  From whom I’ve
been trying quite unsuccessfully
to get some affordable care.  It’s
a nice idea.  But, you know....

I may not be thinking too clearly
at the moment, but I take a few
deep breaths anyway, at peace
with the amount of income tax
that I owe (I needed to figure
that out for the Affordable Care
folks) and the extension that I
didn’t even need to file (or this
I’m told now; who’s to know?).

I allow a small tub of ice cream
to warm my heart while I sit
cross-legged upon a bed
surrounded by several
stacks of books.

mmclxxxix

I’m sitting cross-legged on our bed
reading a poem about suicide and
I find myself overly compelled to
get up and immediately re-read

the poem, in its entirety, to you.
For a minute or two, because I
think this is funny, I am starting
to text you (“Isn’t this funny? ...”).

Realizing I haven’t even moved a
muscle in an effort to get up to
read the poem about suicide to you
and, funnier still, haven’t even sent

you an “Isn’t this funny?” text message,
I laugh out loud, to no one but myself.

mmclxxxviii

rich kids at riots bore and they take their cash away when i don’t do what they say
                                                                                                      —Alli Warren

After dancing all night
I prefer screaming. I
know, right? Or having
screams channeled dire
ectly into both ears

while tripping myself out
by simultaneously attempting
to read poetry. Who am I kidding?
I do this simply to wake myself
the fuck up. Hence, such simul

taneity might also include (as it
does this morning) playing
games in my iPhone with
strangers and blasting
text messages to you;

you’re in the kitchen
and I’m in the bedroom,
isn’t that funny? Yeah,
that got old fast. We
text each other while

sitting silently together,
just the two of us, in
our living room; you
watching animated
superheroes and I

at my computer
doing my feeble
attempts at quilting
this skewed record
of our existence.

mmclxxxvii

Cultural Insensitivity / Rediscover Your Inner Skate Rat

I hope I don’t like you, myself, or anyone else.
                                                      —Killarney Clarey

I’m all out of sorts; all out of order. It’s time
for the three R’s (reading, writing & jobsearch),
but I’m glued to my headphones this morning,
afraid to try to peel them off.

Also, I am not a blogger. There’s a difference.
I do play a lot of games (on my computer, on
my telephone, on my coffee table, on the
streets of San Francisco) (or those are
all things I used to do). But don’t
look for me in the blogroll.

I write a whole page around one single word.
For twelve or eighteen years I do this every day (I’m 

such a liar!). Then one day I can’t fit it all on just one page.

mmclxxxvi

a poetics of wetness


i woke up with tomorrow all gone

drenched was just the start of it

my poor snapdragons all dried up

not the pool of sweat or drool

the garbage bins rolling

two floors beneath the

bedroom window


a dream about a rainshower

turned out to be terrorism

“everybody out!”

we made it but somehow

the culprit fell in love

with the high school principal

the pastry chef was spurned


driest day to darkest night

our wet ears glowed

summer turned into fall

and overall our suspicions faded

mmclxxxv

Note to Self (Thanks for Indulging)

You should perhaps be aware that you can
‘come across’ as being ensconced within,
or as being affiliated with, a ‘network’ or a
‘community’ or a ‘cult’ of any kind, whether
or not you are in any way truly or partially
affiliated with or agreeable to said entity. No
matter if you are the least bit aware, whether or
not it is in any way the intent of your delivery
or performance, you can become thought of as
‘one of us’ by some entity’s ‘official’ membership.
From wherever and for whyever your articulation
or performance, be assured that your ‘voice’ may
or may not help your ‘cause’ (or your ‘causes’),
should you have any. If there was ‘intent’, something
you wanted to mean, had clear purpose from within
regarding that which you imparted, or whether there
was no intent, perhaps it was a meaningless act, even
an accidental one (such as a sneeze), it could be perceived
as something very different. By anyone; even members
of a community, cult, or network which you despise, or
one which you did not even know existed. Your ‘voice’
may supply a rallying cry for a ‘group’ you consider
‘enemy’. Said group’s ‘official membership’ may,
thanks to your delivery or performance, come to
believe you ‘one of us’. This can happen. Despite
‘eloquence’ or ‘clarity’ in delivery. So, whether you’re
delivering or performing in relation to or toward or
against any particular network, cult or community,
whether you are speaking from within or from without,
from its enemy territory, neutral territory, territory it does
not even recognize, from its bunker, its barracks, or from
the very stronghold or headquarters of whatever particular
network, cult or community; whether you ‘belong’ to,
‘stand’ with or against, or are even aware of the network,
cult or community; whether intending cynicism or satire,
whether attempting to be social or ambivalent, your delivery
or performance may convince others that you are ensconced
within a particular network or community—perhaps their own.
You may become thought of as ‘one of us’, become ‘cult
figure’, so to speak, by a particular network, community or
cult’s ‘official members’—and even by those who aren’t
‘official members’ but either aspire to be or erronously
believe themselves to be. Whether this was or was not
your intention. Regardless of whether it is something
you would be particularly comfortable with, should you
even be or become aware of it.

mmclxxxiv

something else. which
reminds me what it felt like
belting the word “ECHO!”
out into the grand canyon,
once as a teenager but also
once as an adult: both times
just as giddy. but the
assignment doesn’t sound
very practical until i think
lightning<—>thunder. but
in all of this meandering
i’m still not sure how to
use the word echolocation
to apply to what i was originally
thinking, to use it as that word
which has been so necessary to me
but until now has been non-existent
or undiscovered. but i did get a little
giddy when i read stephanie’s aside
about the word, or the ‘ideas around’
the word as used by or in the
manner of jena osman, thinking
maybe this is the word that i’ve
been looking for. for so long now.
to use describing how little we can
know. about each other. about our
selves. until we give in to at least a
lifetime of examination, of reverence,
and of scrutiny over each tapestry that’s
brought into each and every ever-so-ephemeral
unit that gets built when we bump into an other or
into a unit of others. no matter how we go about it.
we aim/drift/somersault/meander/drive/rollerskate but
we always bump. carrying with us each our own unique
quilt hewn of speech+writing+noise+dance+anything+
everything. and we make what we make of the muck
that we make as we build by bumping, building by bumps.
we bump into samelike. we bump into same. we bump into
unsame & insane & similarphobe & highly unlikely. we bump
and we bump and we bump and we bump into bounty & predator
& phantasmagoria & friend. bumping can be comedic or tragic,
we make of it what we will. bump. ugh. bump. ugh. bump. ugh.
bump aaaaooo. bump aaaaaooo. bump aaaaoooo. bumping should be
fun. let me just pronounce it. bumping is a great way to get to know somebody.

mmclxxxiii

okay, so echolocation doesn’t really
mean what it means. or am i getting
this right? i don’t recall any time
personally spent in attempt to break
into it, to break it, to crack or divine
it before, but gossip has it that, well,
i mean stephanie mentions it, only
to explain something ‘in relation’
with jena osman’s ‘ideas around
echolocation, locating the unseen
via speech, via writing, via sound’.
which, when i look it up in thefree-
dictionary, seems to mirror and yet
deny the official definition, but wait,
which has to do with sonar, sound
waves, of course, like how bats
or dolphins communicate, or at
the very least locate each other,
identify each other, in terms of
the space between them, so as to,
i suppose, deliberately make way to
the other or to deliberately avoid
the other. but all i am doing is
wondering if i’ve finally found a
word that describes something
that i’ve always wanted to be able
to describe. [sigh. to be able to
describe.] the thing i’ve always
wanted to be able to describe
is how language (speech,
writing, sound, physicality)
can not so much describe a
place, or help you find a place,
but how it defines it. not so much
place, i guess, as culture. and, well,
yes, i suppose defines it in relation
to myself; to my place, my culture—
to me. it was physics, i suppose,
or could it have been calculus?
where i’d have to calculate
something’s distance from
something else based on
when something heard
the noise created by

mmclxxxii

Hi, I’m Face-wash, Children of Addiction,
and I’m writing to you from the
Male Housewives Appreciation Line.

I’m currently number one-hundred
and eighty-two in the queue, but
I’m assuming that you’ll

perfectly well understand my
attempt to move just a
few steps forward.

mmclxxxi

Guernica / Jeanne In A Bottle

     Is matter a transvestite, one asks.
                                   —Etel Adnan

I, too, know all to well
the choke-inducing
sugary-nauseous feeling
of tripping inchoately or
incorrectly or just plain
corruptibly over every—
single—word— so that
each one tumbles out such a much
messier mess than the one previous
had; each & all previouses of which
would’ve remained a virgin, innocent,
no bad report, no scrutiny down from which
to—to—to—scrutinize & from which spits
a whispery but bilious splatter; would’ve
remained as it were in the shadows, but
just as sprightly clean as a whistle, had—I—
not—opened—my—bigmouth—to—begin—with.

However,
might I simply add,
perhaps not exactly in—my—defense,
but it being now, and now being surely
and most likely and certainly the best—
the most appropriate time—if ever there is
or was—to do so, that I do—very—much—love—being,
that I have been in varying degrees, and most—assuredly—am—now
—a poet.

And, as humble or not, I grow more comfortably
into this freaky role every—single—living—day.
In—deed, indeed, and in—clear—matter—of—fact.

With that preceding, I know in my heart—of—hearts
that if afforded a nubbin of pencil & an out-fashioned
book of note, or even a cellblock and a just lick of shale,
that I could, for—Pete’s—sake(—or—for—
naught—but—my—spindrift—own!), write a few lines
that would explain everything so—much—better
than that which I most—awkwardly—and—spontaneously
and ever—so—over-vocally am exhaling at you right now!

mmclxxx

I do remember calling it a coterie,

but I don’t seem to have one anymore.