mmdcclxxiv

Condescension in the Fiction Section

No one would believe my story.  And yet it would bore
pretty much anyone to tears.  My story, it ain’t no good.
A story can come in many sizes and a good one will work on
multiple levels, they say.  The same could be said of the icons of
today's blockbuster cinema: Superman, Spiderman, Naruto, Wolverine,
Magneto, the Avatar, Captain Underpants (he IS a cinematic superhero,

right? I just ran into a 5 year old sporting an under-sized t-shirt with this
unlucky official moniker), Jack Black, Captain Jack Sparrow, Cap’n Crunch,
Peter Pan, etc.  “I was born in the Summer of Love,” I say, just to throw
people off.  I mean, look at me, do I look like the son of hippies (I certainly am
not)??  And then I wear a grimace for the rest of the day.  What happened to
all of the love, I mumble intermittently from, I dunno, 4:00 to 11:00 pm

(the latter couple of hours I mumble somewhat drowsily until later:)?
“I wasburn in a Smermer of Loovthe!”  I shout somewhere on Haight
Street, knowing that most people confuse this summer (not my mumbles,
necessarily) with 1969, the summer the twins were born (my little brothers),
and the summer those men landed on the moon (or else the year that Stanley
Kubrick was an unusually prolific, not to mention quite stealthy director).

Reality?  Do most people don’t get 1969 confused with 1967?  On any level?  Um.
Perhaps on some level, almost everyone (of a certain age) gets 1969 confused
with 1967.  But what of 1968, 1971, 1975, or even 1979....1973?  Presently,
I’m either depressingly or at least toyingly toodling with the distance between
the present and that grand demarcation: the Summer of Love.  Now let’s all
poke some fun at glaring half-centuries which ogle back at me like oversized

bobbleheads (aren’t they all?).  And above those blurred bobs – in a precisely
delineated neon yellow – flashes the appropriate word, one we’d take on
decades later: “D’uh!”  So did folks living in the Summer of Love realize that
they were participants in the Summer of Love?  Or did that realization arrive
years later as a posthumous (so-to-speak) appellative?  And how subsequent,
if so?  This I am pretty certain is a fact that I should know, but, my memory.

And, on a related note, as luck would have it, I’ve already lost all interest.
Except in how it might pertain to me, as usual.  You know, that
particularly easy-going plump babe was born the second Thursday
of a June; during what (in towns, such as the one in which I was
born), lovingly (or laughingly), is called the morning rush hour (actually
two fantastical l-words of my own bias, because most citizens hereof had

never even been anywhere else in the world - another fantasy/bias, if you’ll
allow); when it comes to the rush of an hour, to even realize there can be
a difference.  I was such an easy birth, too, just ask my mother, (who
definitely knows from worse).  That’d be me, born as I was in none other
than THE summer of love, a summer which will never again be half a

century in distance from anywhere else in the world (be that anywhere:
Vesta, Arkansas; Kyoto, Japan; Skopje, Macedonia; or either of the multi-
tudinous but each unique canals of Venice, Amsterdam or St. Petersburg).

mmdcclxxiii

Fake Excuse

When it’s
impossible
to write
because
you can’t
afford a
pen (and
you’re too
chicken-
shit to
steal one).

mmdcclxxii

Part Poem / Part Agnostic

I guess I’m too old to
die young; I mean, in

any sort of hyperbolic
way. (And I’m easy

to admit that I’d love
to be remembered

quite hyperbolically.)

mmdcclxxi

Maudlin

That part you have
right. That part of
me wading in all of
the bullshit, you de
scribe it differently,
and it’s your bod
given right, abso
lutely, because
your attention is
sick, and not in a
good way, sick as
the victims you
point at all day
long, thinking
nothing, per
taining to the
victims, but
even moreso
how you feel
about this sys
tem we spent
time building,
applauding,
lauding, up
setting and
rearranging,
along with
our values,
how wonder
fully precious
to have one or
two of them,
but eviscerated?
I don’t recom
mend it, nope.
I believe that’s
what’s so shock
ing about these
stocking-stuffers
so heavily weight
ed with self-esteem
issues, depressions,
the inactive ideas of
each yesterday’s gung-
ho, being solidly put in
to a place where nobody
can remember (the idea,
yesterday, the solidity,
the action of inaction),
the pitch-perfect abuse
(sitting in front of Life
time television yelling
Why stay with such
a son-of-a-bitch!? I,
the killing of the hap
py (where did those
drugs go, right?)
as a sneaky mur
derer, or worse,
creeps into our
universe of val
ues and such,
wow, what a
valuable uni
verse (because,
yes, of course,
it’s since been
completely re
veresed!), ig
noring con
sequences, as
if what are those?


Let’s pause for
just a moment
to prepare for
what otherwise
would be a lethal
isolation. Which
means ignore my
pleas, ignore my
please, snub ev
ery last one of
my pleases,
take a step
closer, just
one step, and
recall how much
further it was from

me than the step be

fore, from the bleak fix
that is me, how dar
ling of me to nostalgic
ally imagine it so, ano
ther step closer/further
and we might even re
discover that release
sensation, the valve
and value of which
we lost, broke, or
just forgot to keep
their forwarding
addresses...

(to be continued,
always at some
futuristic hour,
so long as we are
still skipping and
beating, breathing
and slipping. So, by
all means, stay tuned.)

mmdcclxx

2. out of sorts (5 letters)

Life is like
a cross-
word
puz-
zle.

It’s
not
going
to work
without
the words.

mmdcclxix

How No One Is Who You Say You Are

Who you
say you
are is
mostly
every-
one.
While
some
do, most
people
never
add that
part to
them-
selves.
Admit-
ting the
fault that
is yours
isn’t half
the battle,
but owning
up to what
one’s sub-
tracted from
oneself. Hon-
ing that down
inside even
your great-
est others
is nothing
about vul-
nerability.
It is quite
simply
about
the
truth,
which,
when all
is said and
done, turns
out to be
nothing
but a
hole.

mmdcclxviii

This Is Not At All How I Feel About It

Many apologies. In all the years of our correspondence, I
do not recall broaching this subject, which has been many.
And this particular topic is uncannily important, especially
with regard to our ‘relationship.’ So it is with all due respect
that I respond in this way. Because this is what we do. The
answer is not when will I become my old self; that’ll never
happen. But sometimes never is a blesséd thing. When I took
the Hippo Oath, I never thought was a hypocrite. Maybe the
Greeks were all Geminis, I dunno (I certainly don’t remember
any screwing that occurred Halloween). “I wasn’t on hand for 

that particular heartbreak,” he says nostalgically, without even
utilizing his pretty hands to make the point. Amused by this, 

Art begins to sing La Isla Bonita while the rest of the knights
are brashly serving all of their grunts dinner (shining armor,
indeed!). Then the henchmen agree upon specifically
what to do about history. The agreement, stacked as it
were, rock upon rock (as I recall, it was mostly slate,
done in the classic style so predominant in those less
volatile but much more tawdry times), was thread
throughout about seven triptychs. “What do you mean, 

what is there to do about all of this history?” Jenna asked 

the by then vanished (vanishéd) capitan while astral

projecting herself into a different parlor, one which housed
all the same strange people that were milling about the pre
vious parlor, except this newer group looked a lot more
exhausted. I agreed as I twitched back and forth amongst
extreme clarity, warped juxtaposition (again, in the nature 

of that particular era), a perverted cynicism pulsing through

this  very oddly-whetted comedy which, while watching, I 

could but squeeze out a rare and very dry chuckle.

mmdcclxvii

The White Cliffs of Dover

    Old age is not to be believed.
                   —Joe Brainard

I woke up
this morning
with no hang-
over (I mean
like the ones
that occur
without the
aid of a yes-
terday of
drinking or
participating
in alternative
festivities).
Meaning:
I’m young
again.  Check
Roger slither-
ing out of the
bedroom and
into the L-
shaped hall-
way.  Check.
Roger.  I’m
slithering as
well, out from
under my blank-
ets to grab my
favorite pull-
over, head to
the shower
for a quick
scald and
a comb-
over.
Mostly
happy,
like al-
most al-
ways; re-
lieved with-
in the con-
viction that
I’m in no
need of a
do-over.
“Check,”
shouts
Roger
with both
arms up
in the air.

mmdcclxvi

New Poem

Stay true to your
self.  I try to be kind.

mmdcclxv

Comic Strip Yappy

Diane, I don’t remember all these cartoons.
I have novel-sized reams of mail you sent
me during the nineties (in particular). Was
your intention to send me both Mary Worth
AND Apartment 3-G? The latter, what
ever the case, seems hilarious, looks
like it would be a total scream to
me (now - I certainly did not get
them at the time). Also, The Far Side
never grows old, apparently. I love the
one you sent of a young Captain Hook
who’s seeing a “job therapist” (I could
definitely use one of those, by the way)
because he’s torn between two potential
careers: pirating or massage therapy. The
look on the therapist’s face is priceless.
Or did I make that part up? Anyway,
one thing I didn’t make up were two
“Special Report” sidebars you must have
cut from something (From what, though?
Was there a magazine called “Special Report”
to which someone in your family – or, just as
likely, you – subscribed?) that were entitled
“Special Report 2” and “Special Report 3.”
They remind me of the pamphlets that folks
in and around Chinatown are always passing
out about the ... Falun Gong ... I think?
I’ve no recollection beyond that, at
the moment, because I’m reminded
of the man (I actually really miss him)
who stood on a dais made of a couple
of milk crates, I believe, on the corner
of Grant and Washington Streets (or
Grant and one of the cross-streets
nearby Washington Street) literally
all day long sing-saying “Happy Happy
Happy” over and over and over again.
Only it sounded more like “Appy Yappy
Yappy” to me. So I’d be sing-saying
the same, all the rest of a day when I
had the joy of running into him. It
gave me a very warm feeling, and I
felt reassured and okay, as in I’m gonna
be okay because Appy Yappy Yappy.
There really are a lot of these letters,
Diane. All in one envelope, for example,
there’s an 8 1/2" x 11" handwritten letter,
along with a Gil Thorpe strip, an always
seemingly worthless comic (to me) that
again, only now, as I read through your
letters and their various surprise enclos
ures, seem to be getting. Like, I GET
Gil Thorpe! How crazy is that?
And then there’s Mary Worth,
another soap opera strip with
only two or three frames a day,
like the soapy and oh-so-slow-
moving Dick Tracy, a strip I
actually read and read, but
never actually got, to be per-
fectly honest. Who knows why,
though, because even back then
I loved soap operas (I’d watch
Days of Our Lives and The Young
& the Restless – which starred
David Hasselhoff, at the time – with
my mom before I even started school.
I remember this!) I always felt in these
drawn-out dramas that there was
some sort of humor that I must surely
have been totally missing. And
there must have been. Because
you sent me strip after strip after
strip, along with your three- to seven-
paged incredibly engaging letters,
most all of which I took photographs of
before everything in my storage unit
went to auction. These are the things
that life is made of. Of which life is
made. Which make life. For which
I am beyond grateful.

mmdcclxiv

Laminated Pig

Greetings, beneficiary!
There’s the “ick” of St.
Petersburg. And then
there’s the “ugh” of St.
Petersburg. Lucy lives
in St. Petersburg, but
she is not to be confused
with that person in the
sky with diamonds. No,
but she has immeasurable
amounts of gold. Scads of
it. During the warm season,
and sometimes during the
not-so-warm seasons,
the gold cascades down
the mountaintops that
surround Lucy’s daringly
hip (for Russia, you know)
mansion. So, yes, lots of
gold. Urp! And lots of
icky sky. Ugh! But the
golden icing on the peaks
of the summits surround-
ing her dainty mansion,
and the gold itself, seem
to be the only pollution
in Russia’s Amsterdam
(however, I will always
prefer Venice). The pol-
lution wraps the city into
a singularity, so it can be
stuck into a sentence all
the more disgustingly,
all the more gaudily,
with the common sway
of the boughs, the overly-
ornate parlor parquetry,
the kitchen cabinets that
are so often open, hanging
limply like lower parts of
the human body around
a broken bone, a leg bone,
say, as it sways ever so slight

ly, to and fro (for purposes of
this missive, we can deny
the pain of it all; there’s
enough in the beautifully
warped city of St. Peters-
burg, whose inhabitants
seem endlessly enraptured
by the sunken rooms in
their own homes; rooms
we’d probably call dens.
In fact, “Down with dens!”
is the somewhat unofficial
motto of the city of
St. Petersburg. A den
with an extra e is of course
Eden, after all.) And always
he sways and she sways,
in unison, in solidarity, it
seems with the boughs
and the buroughs. He
sways, she sways. And do
I ever love it when you sway
on your uniquely bland (for
St. Petersburg, anyway)
porch-swing in the
indelibly heartwarming
city of St. Petersburg, Russia.

mmdcclxiii

What’s true of labyrinths is true of course
Of love and memory. When you start remembering.
                                                                            –Jack Spicer

You have created with-
in me a hole. Well, an
open eye (with no leaks),
and it is a very cold hole.

I did not know what to
say to you who had such
a bountiful half-barrel
of the sweetest apples

as you placed them on
the dock of your choice
for the world’s apple
junkies to gather

around and to adore.
Not until it was almost
a minute too late did
you take the most

beautiful one in your
precious hand with
its elegant spindly
fingers and offer

one boldly to the
threshold of my
younger lips.
“Here,” you said,

as I took a bite.
“There,” you said
as I swallowed it.
Where I am now

is anyone’s guess.
Even my open eye,
which is con-
stantly leaking

(liquid which
is obviously
from some-
where in my

head), hasn’t
the where-
withal to en-
vision a map

to provide
me with gui-
dance, nor
offer a single

token of advice
regarding which
direction my next
step should go.

mmdcclxii

Alice, I wish you a factory.
                               ♥ Lucas

I wish you a
factory for all
of the same
reasons I
wish the ex
who stole all
of the rest of
my clothes (ex-
cept what I am
presently wearing)
peace.  The news-
paper clippings my
grandmother col-
lected and carefully
arranged into a sort
of funerary scrap-
book had no sticker
price, of course.
Upon the clippings
were photos of men
who were killed
during the second
world war.  The
whole set was
enclosed nearly
airtight in a large
ziplock bag.  By
now, perhaps,
the fragile yel-
low clippings
which hung
onto the fragile
black pages of
the antique note-
book have been
blown into hun-
dreds of pieces
and flutter like
autumn leaves
over the crooked
streets of my city –
a city that knows
neither autumn 

nor winter.

mmdcclxi

Two Good Years

As for my perplexed reaction,
I need a good playing field.

You giving me good playing
has a certain come-uppance,

the silence of which was the
silence of the Nevermind,

the area we both penetrate.
Never mind the era in which

we both penetrated the
Netherlands.  Purportedly.

Hold off!  Be silent!  Catch
your breath, Bill!  The

suspension (which was
the truth that was killing

us) had never spoken so
softly, swaying, as it were,

in the hillbilly breeze,
which was full of the

distinctly indecipherable
whispers of that voice.

Said perp (the sotto voce
perp), who hasn’t been

seen (nor heard from)
since either before

or after.  During which, the

march.  The long march.

mmdcclx

     What a beautiful and violent day today is!
                                       —Joe Brainard

The city slowly
exhales.  It ex-
hales forever.
I know this be-
cause I hear it
out my new win-
dow all night.  No-
thing going in.  It
is not a direction
tonight.  I’m a
slave to the
clouds that
carry away
this incessant
breath.  Gulp-
ing everything
I can from this
vacuum, I scream
Come back to the
ground, you mon-
grel clouds!!  Come
back.  Be fog.  Be
like I am.  Square
in the face.  Hazy.
Pinwheel of in-
determinate
temperance.
At a loss.  Death,
that last gasp for
breath, is but
the clean sweep
of this infernal
breeze.

mmdcclix

2018

     1970
     is a good year
     if for no other reason
     than just because
     I’m tired of complaining.
                    —Joe Brainard’s poem “1970” in its entirety

2018
is a good year
if for no other reason
than just because
I’m tired of complaining.

mmdcclviii

The Happiness

          I lack the courage to talk words very much
          because they are terribly finite and
          final and I don’t enjoy the risk.
                                                        —Joe Brainard

Memory of a late May
tarot card reading
on a pile of rubble.
Don’t multitask be
cause it’s literally
impossible to multi
task.  Give each step
your complete atten
tion (totality).  The in
ternal attention that I
am unable to see: pro
jection. The outer influ
ence that I already know
(all too well): playfulness.
In retrospect, all too well
turns out to be not nearly
well enough.  So what do I
need in order to resolve this
playfulness problem? Well,
it says here “a ticker-tape
parade.” And “I should ride
on the tiger of success” and
“squeeze every drop of juice
out of the happiness.” The
memory, a few lines written
on frayed and yellowing note
book paper, ends obliquely:
first, with an “AMEN!” and,
all by itself near the bottom 

of the page, “The Monster.”

mmdcclvii

Chocolate Grape of the Day

What’s un-
settling isn’t
just the shout-
ing/shoving
match in
the “Quiet
Room” on
Christmas
Eve.  It’s
simple
math;
it is you
and me.
“What the
future holds,”
you say, “isn’t
pretty.”  You
don’t actually
say that.  To
be honest, I
summon that up 

on my own.

mmdcclvi

Diary of a Landmine

This year’s word of
the day is calm down.
I know this because I
hear it regularly all
year long; more
than I hear any
other word.
This strikes me
as humorous,
out of the ordin-
ary, puzzling, frust-
trating, defense mech-
anism and hopeless.
In that order.
Chronologically.
Because it is a year.
And, true, it is not a
logical year at all, but
it is humorous, puzzling,
frustrating, defense mech-
anism, throwing up (yes,
a whole lot of that), surreal-
ism (which numbs rather than
stings, because it is not reality),
dread, fits of dead end, which,
when you find yourself there,
are pretty hopeless (nowhere
to go but backwards and all),
etc. Every day there’s another
obstacle. Until you find that,
pausing for a breath, you
have rested your foot
upon a landmine
(which, you have
to admit, is a pretty
solid example of
“dead end”).
At this point,
you look back
(as I did) and
question where
that path you were
on to begin with must
have led. And where it
it all went wrong. Where
you somehow deviated, and
wound up at the end of this road,
instead of another one. Instead
of any other one. Instead of
each and every end of each
and every alternate road. So
it’s safe to say, I do believe,
that calm down land mine
is the word of this year
(thus far).

mmdcclv

The Great Unrealistic Ache

It was the summer of
I hate this one. In which
the foggy details
became all too clear.

For the obscure
clarity = obscenity.
To the foggy, it was
never really that vague.

I looked out, did a
quick survey of the
landscape of
simmering wet

toilets that
pulsate (due to
my eyes’ over-
loaded blood-

veins) and
I thought,
“How cine-
matic!”

So caught
up in this
was I (I was!)
that .. long pause .. .. ..

Oh, what a blustery
day it is (Is it?). It’s so
wound up that the
groundbreaking

ceremony for the
hardware store
that the neighbors
are building (the

ones who live in
the tiny room
that abuts our
garage) was

postponed
indefinitely.

mmdccliv

…I don’t really think in words, but impressions.
Saying something in words is so harsh; too
general. It’s never enough.
                                                 —Joe Brainard

He has me giddy
searching for that
pot of gold. What
a rainbow he is!
I am so in love
with not knowing
where I’m going.
Quick, what comes
immediately to mind
when you see the
words SHATTERED
GLASS? I’m always
moving around with
some: in my pockets,
in my socks, under
my feet, in my hair,
stuck between my
teeth, etc. Today,
I went shopping
for some that’s
as of yet un-
shattered.
It’s expensive,
though. And
who needs it
anyway? I’ll
stick with the
ruby-studded
diamonds in
my pants
pockets, in
my tube socks.
So I buy a
stick of lipstick
instead. It looks
like a battery
that when
opened is
a tube of
butter.
Earlier this
week I lost
my lock that
keeps my few
belongings tucked
away safe. I forgot
to pick one up
while I was
shopping. I
was too keyed
in to cheap
bleeding
jewels and
lip-tickling
batteries
filled with
butter.
Knock,
knock. I’m
going to use
the rest of
October
(my least
favorite
month)
to buy
a new
lock.
Stay
tuned
next week
for The Case
of the Lonely
Pneumonia.

mmdccliii

Fresh Kill
   @the
Pink Palace

Is it that
this day,
like any
other, is
rife with

possibility?

What did
we do on
those
other
days?

mmdcclii

Vine’s Rhinoceros
(an achizm that’s almost awakizm)

           I felt good that I had eyes.
                           —Joe Brainard

In the quiet room: “I asked you
I asked you I asked you a
specific question. You didn’t
answer the question you just went
AROUND the question.” Then “YOU
think I’M flirtatious?!” Then “What
if I WAS flirtatious with the professor
who was flirting with me?”
…    …    Long Pause      …
I guess she hung up.

So let’s clunk…
“How behavior light” (folly)     …
“(How behavior light!”)

…    …    “Hello? Hello.”  …
…    …    OK                  …

Suspicious of the vines, she
broke the rhinoceros. The
vines that broke the clouds
with the eyes.

I sat up late at night (top bunk #13).
I shot up in bed.
I woke up to shooting up.

If you spit on a toilet
You get nothing but
…       a spitty toilet.

The toilet, the vine, the specific question and the eyes
… … all went right back to the ache.

mmdccli

“Here,” I said, hand-
ing over her lunch,
“I wrote you a sandwich.”
“Arkansas thunderstorms are
close to my own words,” she re-
sponded, surely meaning something
like “What a neat trick!” That, however,
was then. Today, I learn of a good friend’s
passing, and my current favorite person in
the universe will not even speak to me, de-
spite my trying in most every language (in
the same universe) to explain to him that
pretty much the only thing that he could
possibly do to actually halt progress (which,
as it turns out, is a difficult word to define,
in any language!) is to cut off all means of
communication. What a lazy way to go, this
death by incommunicado. Perhaps, then, the
San Francisco fog colludes with that of my own.
Feeling my way through it, this fog and that fog,
I happen upon the zing of a word that once meant
something. “To whom?” asks my favorite person in
the universe. Thus we arrive, the both of us, in color-
ful bow ties, at the Awk Ward, where for many years I
live, taking lots of pictures of myself just to while away
the time. Much later, when I finally escape, I find myself
at every MUNI stop swimming in a curiosity that is almost
always followed by an uncontrollable laughter. I’m not
laughing (of course) at all of the people from other more
distant terrains who stand in the subway or sit in a bus
with long wands which are called Stick Selfie. “You idiots,
you lost another month!” says the person sitting directly
under the ad for Stick Selfie. Or is it that the voices in-
side of my head dare instead to remain silent? Will they
always be this deceptive, this quiet, this deceptively
quiet, like an intricate stealthy drone driven from
five thousand miles away by an even smaller drone?

mmdccl

The Sequel

What I really remember is the snow
that crunched loudly white while two
by two we emptied milk cartons all over
the carpet where we’d light a blunt auburn
candle each time we’d place a large chicken
clean into the oven and then we’d find ways
to warm ourselves up without speech until the
cold was floating around us and not on top of us

“like reindeer” amid the pink canvases filled
with runny noses we always arrived into the
same dusk-colored place – we’d be circling a
Christmas tree (“Teddy’s got mine!”) with
none other than our dusty favorite, Frosty
the Sasquatch. Thus would begin the alt-
holidays through which we’d droopily
happily endure . . . and now the sun –

shining its headlamp out toward every
slice of existence that isn’t already
pink (concocting brown and also
blueberry and ashen gray but
banana, too!) . . . and the trains

whistling arguments with one
another; non-stop red-faced
outbursts over and under
snow-capped mountains,
beside the exhausted
stumps that stubble
the inclines between
the tunnels;

these parched
remains of an
erstwhile lush
austerity sec-
retly seek –
desperately
seek – a simple
spot in the shade.

Sadly, being but stumps
(and therefore never quite
capable of grasping the fate-
altering tricks known particular-
ly by their neighbors, the rocks),
each, despite a blaze-quenching
desire, meets destiny by coming
to rest beneath a canopy of no-
thing but emboldened stars;
each desiccated stub next
to its very own frozen 

pile of decaying hay.

mmdccxlix

The Rambler

Promise me, son, not to do the things I’ve done.
                                   —Kenny Rogers

Repetition is the highest
form of slavery. Never-

mind that it doesn’t
matter what I say.

Values are less
valuable as

the high ground
gets high. It’s

our job to separate
the wheat from the

chaff, amorally
speaking. “Turning

the other cheek is a
sin,” says Mixed-Up

God, who’s always
walking away from

trouble (when he
can). I spit up

an egg sandwich
onto every offender.

Each is an officer
who bears a key

as host to this 

year’s city-state

nirvana.
Nirvana

is made of
regurgitated

gold. And
molded bread

my dears.
Good old bread.

mmdccxlviii

This Has Probably Been Said Before

Looking down onto the desert
I am reminded of the dollops
in his throat – it could just be
the clouds or how the currency
of his voice was always paid in
whiskey clinks (Were aces wild
or bases loaded? There’s only so
much one remembers); it could be
too a resistantly lingering vapor, but
a whiff of that surly misdemeanor, now
gone all but non-existent – a stinking ex-
tinction the whole of which I’d welcome
for an instant – or two – and not in a regret-
ful nor a spiteful way, either (Oh, how very
skewed becomes each glanced perspective!)….
Would that I could pay my way clear through
the pink rock-like layers that compose such
beautiful buttes as those that I have yet to
completely imagine. But come now would I,
could I (?), if but to ascertain precisely my
particular description; how each (to a man)
whose clipped talk was such a dreamy golden
voice gone voiceless – (ah, but whose now
hasn’t?) – was everything that’s me and mine
in just one singular cloud that drops by, stays
a little while, then drops a little rain upon
the desert and (poof!) was just a cloud all
by itself (like me, like I am now, an isolated
puff)? How distant are the layers of that cake!
And to the prick how each (a he) he must have
convulsed from such repulsion, and with urgency
and in direct polarity with apparently misleading
charm, that with a similar conviction and speed
a quick storm exhibits as it hops across the sage-
brush of a summer afternoon – or how a bit
further into the frontier a casino’s change
leaks softly-swiftly into pocket – with a whoosh! –
it’s vanished irrevocably, leaving for jilted memory
all sorts of bruises and cuts that in turn will leave
scars, the very templates of bitter remembrance,
and hands that remember being full with what’s
gone – as with a ghost town’s erstwhile panhandlers’….
This story of a couple of men once disguised as side-
burns walking through an arboretum, and how they
were at once two books that being stolen from a
leisure van parked on a little rock in Little Rock….
How that little black pocket rock once conveyed
a made-up mood, a few feelings, for example,
like the ones given out by whistling sagebrush –
those same clumps disintegrated by the dis-
appearance – now gone so damp as to give
a vertigo, a berserk and unconventional
spin. And do they ever spin! They spin
until all of my arms and teeth are lost,
until a single blunt post of saguaro gets
stuck somewhere in the rainforest of a
distant hemisphere as the vague scent of
whiskey as it clicks or as it clinks through
the bone-chill night after night after night
toward the rocks that are uplifted and carried
by the dreaming wind until dropped as a stack
like silver dollar pancakes into blood-colored
buttes. And nearby, where burial grounds
grow paler pink under the scorch – “We’re
going to Illinois…aren’t we?” –I thought I
heard him say. “If just to perk things up
a little bit” – (But where did we ever go?
And will it ever be remembered?)….
The once and all familiar….
And then we….
At last… And
since…. (a dis-
continuance)

mmdccxlvii

     1) An unvert is neither an invert or an outvert, a pervert
         or a convert, an introvert or a retrovert. An unvert
         chooses to have no place to turn.
                                                             —Jack Spicer

Toby Lee, guitarist and child
prodigy, stares out from the
computer and onto his bed
but momentarily, lost among
his various quirks and tradition-
al guitarist twitches. He is hard-
ly as historical as they are, these
traditional glitches.

Unleash, henceforth, the 9am
piece of misunderstanding (Oh,
do come back Mister Under-
standing…)…. Your promised
plans make fucked up moves,
make things like me hurt. That
tough love disguised as bitter pills
to toughen up or make one better?
I’ve never been an easy scam (much
as I tease so) but next to you I’m not
but had. Isn’t that historical? As if
the vapor of your fake death would
deign to respond.

Without a map, without a dollar, without
an aging couch, much less a familiar door
to open (close and deadbolt), I find my-
self (like I find Toby Lee). In this bubble
of misbehaving, misbegotten emotion, I
am left to face this farcical non-existence
you invented for yourself, an omnipresent
tension that turns out to be as real as
your fake pills for love.

“Witches’ brew?” offers the magician’s
assistant, as he lifts the gargantuan
magic eraser up to the summer sun.

mmdccxlvi

Kill the Star Student

The lousy way
you’re treating
me is only hurt-
ing myself. Mary
very easily makes
teacher’s pet breathe.
I watch lovestruck
just to further distance
myself until I am well
again. Enough of the
hell you say! It was
inevitably your choice
that I chose incorrectly.
I love you so much that
you broke a record I set
picking an ultimatum. In
other shadows moping a-
round inside your skull,
distance is directly pro-
portional to engagement.
I look down feeling less
heathen and negatively
affianced. “We both knew
this would happen,” says
the finances to the ugly pile
of material conquest. Ever
the victim, I text via SMS
knowing full well that to
square off with reality is
to disavow it. Like knock-
ing on the door to a place
you single-handedly just
emptied only to find the
table set like a midwinter
holiday. (It probably goes
without saying that you
have arrived, as always my
fairest delusion, for no other
reason than offer the only
tradition at which you’ve
always been best: con-
cocting the signature
cocktail, of course. And
this elixir? Well it is so
good it takes me out to the
ballgame and shoots you
all the way to the moon
where that fat ball of cheese
is still having its way with
you. Because, you see, it has
stolen your playbook by
playing the victim and
pointing its fingerless
blame right at me. And
the stars? Well, they each
have their turn with you,
too. But they’re only extras
scattered about in this rousing
conspiracy. And while I sit but
twiddling alone in a cavernous
ballpark, the moon turns its
cheese-riddled cheek to a
new favorite culprit as you
perform your final erasure,
dissolving traceless into the
Andromeda, a wasted and
infinite expansion of space.)

mmdccxlv

Tiny Goals for Larger Days

These people
are not morn-
ing people.  These
people are getting
in the way.  What
is the opposite of
two roads diverging?
A bridge over troubled
waters?  Would you like
to hang out today?  I’m
not certain I can do that.
For one thing, I have to
charge my cellphone (the
days are endless like this).
In my mind I’m thinking
I owe him a dollar.  In his
mind he’s thinking he
owes me an apology.

mmdccxliv

Waves are made of the same water rotating tirelessly.
                                                —Cassie Lewis

I used to love Hal-
loween. Today,
this one is somber,
at the end of a
near catastrophic
October. Some-
how I rise,
surely more
zombie than
human, in
search of
motivation,
inspiration,
happiness—
all the things
that lead to
cash rewards
on every pur-
chase. They
turned my only
remaining bank
into a café. It’s
still a bank, but
it’s wearing
a chainstore
coffeeshop
costume.
Adopting
a pet can
change its
world and
yours.

Grace here = cash.
               —Cassie Lewis

mmdccxliii

ocean static
kite and salt
walk directly
into the wave

if sex
were you and me
hands clenched
with whitecap

the thrill
of the crest
to our
lips

mmdccxlii

beached
we dry
our fingers

the moon pulls
our shadows
into the mist

mmdccxli

The Burden of Living Off the Graciousness of Others

I really enjoy it when, say, a
generic brand of strawberry soda
has, rather, a distinct cream soda
taste.  And this happens on occasion.
To me, it does….  Anyone else?

The act of engagement.  Engaging in

person (irl, non-virtual).  Yet for all of 

the day’s generosity, the beautifully 

spun green and gold floating backwards
through the internet, past the new

social blockade and landing here in
my very lap, it is that act I miss the
most.  Nose to nose talk done not by
fingers (which carry about contorted,
flying through the space just in front of

our eyes, if not locked between a pair
of them).  Voices the steam from which
we can feel on our cheeks and words that
are spoken with our entire bodies….  My
eyes, your eyes.  Eyes that know me and

mine that know you, eyes that have a
history between them, can work to recall 

times such as these.  See the both of us 

in something of a tight orbit, air quotes,
a three dimensional thumbs-up, a held

but spinning glass of wine, building
suspense, finally tilted so it’s almost
spilled, until we are speaking a decibel
or two louder and our faces flush.  We
seem to care, as if we’ve each a bit of

something at stake, a small piece of
you and a small piece of me which we
offer the other or carefully take.  We’ll
talk the afternoon away, just like we
used to, of course, through a wonderful

evening we’ll chatter away.  It’s so lovely

to see you, perhaps you could stay?  Let’s
say for dinner?  Or even the night?  It has
been forever, there’s so much to relay.
Oh, please say you’ll do so, I find my

self texting while thinking so loud that I
notice the sound of my very own voice.  I
look up embarrassed then back at the key-
board before reminiscing, soda in hand, caught 

hung on a moment, completely carried away.

mmdccxl

Sure there are eucalypts but they seem as out of place as we do.
                                                                      —Cassie Lewis

I have joined
the leagues:
I am grooming
at the public
library.  I am,
to be precise,
clipping my finger-
nails into a can
of trash near the
poetry section.
But this act
definitely falls
easily under the
category of The
Leagues Who
Groom Them-
selves at the
Public Library.
Next thing you
know, I’ll be tak-
ing a sponge bath
in stall number two
on floor one – in
the only public
restroom at

the main library.
When I last used
to come regularly
to the this library –
to browse the poetry
section, no less –
I would often refer
to the men’s room
as the homeless
showers.  The next
thing I know....

mmdccxxxix

Achizm #3

     It’s been days since I opened the book
     my face is watching.
                                    —Cassie Lewis

always peeking
down the wrong
hedgerow /
squatting
at the most
inappropriate
vegetables