mmdcclxxxv

Jim & I

My New Year’s Resolution,
granted, a couple of weeks
early, is to stop being bitter.
About anything. Yes, how
improbable, how impossible
this sounds, you think. You
know me perhaps (improb-
able), and there is a lot to be
bitter about; a whole lot of
junk floating around about
which to be bitter, be you
me, or be you, well, you. Of
that, am I right or am I wrong?
Normally, I am able to look at
most anything happy and heart-
ily strive. After all, there are infin-
ite angles from which to look.
Is it necessary to cultivate the
bad stuff, then allow it to inte-
grate and to potentially over-
take? Even momentarily? I know
I do. So that makes it all my fault.
Which is...okay? Am I right or am I
right? But if I have nobody to blame
but myself, who then do I finally have?
I realize now, as I walk endlessly through
this city of mirrors that I am doomed. But
when you live in a city full of mirrors, you
might pass, as I am right at this very instant,
by a somewhat familiar face that has a smile
directed right at you, a face that, as its smile
shrinks or sort of sinks into itself, belongs to
a figure that is the template, the embodiment,
it seems to me, of sheer joy. There isn’t a

speck or a flicker of sarcasm. I know this
because I check very thoroughly when I en-
counter familiarity. Also, I have a very on-
going relationship with loss. Loss I know.
So this guy appears. And what do I do?
I say “Hey there, Mister. I have a fairly
good feeling that we’ve met before.” And

I say this in earnest, as I extend my idiot-
ic arm nearly smack into the mirror’s edge.

mmdcclxxxiv

The Ground of No Ground

Four children bumped
in the air. They call this
a high five. Children
are elusive. There are
lines of impermanence,
lines of closure, lines
drawn in the sand and
lines of cocaine, where
sales have hit Ground
Zero. Brands are beautiful:
brass brands, swing brands,
junkyard brands and even
little yellow polka brands.

mmdcclxxxiii

Bloody Birth

License to
drive. A con-
gratulatory
pedestrian
files his
shame
into the
pocket be-
neath the
brand name
of his neck-
tie bod-
ice piss-
pot.
There
are no
typewriters.
There is no
“ammunition” --
no inevitable
Big Bang. But
if I told you what
they really make
the monkeys do. . . . .

mmdcclxxxii

PANDA PUNDIT

Sounds skill.
Lariat’s donut.

Hews sinking
(about sinew)!

Smoothie witch-
es Lucy biased of-

ten his awled brook.
Itches effen cauled

braid.  Ah, plant it
like as if a reality

cuticle, Darlene
(Knot it!).  This bee

smoothie knock
tern turned into

dust.  Knock’s
worst toward

Innie Moor.
DRove into dun

dee rooooove

right on inna

Dinah’s door

(Cant tink a

rotten pink-
ing cent, dat

Thynah!).  Ding
buckle it!  Dirk

bugle lit!  Pork
Horror Porklin’s

calomines: Ding
dang bung kit!

Den, kaput.

mmdcclxxxi

Hopeless Poet / Homeless Romantic

If it’s from the heart
it must not be homeless.

Homes have heart, right?
Even when they are

in production.
Literature doesn’t

provide the bright-
est. The eyes that

glow with the most hope
are probably not the eyes

of poets. Nobody
smells / sports / spoils roses

like homeless poets is a very
ethnocentric statement (in any

form). But nobody is lousy (not
one person is lousy) and anyone

who can speak is allowed to
speak, etc. We are everywhere.

My home is you. But there are
no beams (i.e., no boundaries).

Only surface. One surface
upon which there is no run-

way onto which any flying
object can cleanly land;

no runway to properly
showcase any of our guilt.

mmdcclxxx

Hearts & Backpacks

This lacks poetry,
but I’m sitting on
the same bed (or
the same spot) in 

the same emergency
room where Otto
(How long has it
been since I wrote
that name?) had
his heart failure
diagnosed.  You’d
think if your heart
failed it would be
easy to diagnose,
but as it turns out....
Anyway, my heart
is no longer failing
as it’s already gone.
Sorry, couldn’t re-
member. And maybe
that’s just wistful
thinking.  But 

as it turns out,
there have been
a lot of wists to
dwell upon or
inside of lately.
Like earlier today
(wist) when yet an-
other half of all of
the belongings I
possess from my
fifty-one years

of living
were stolen
away from my
clinging arms
while I was a-
sleep in a park

getting sunburnt.
This kind of thing
seems to happen
so often that I’ve
begun to think of it
as clichè (which I
keep thinking is
“so clichè!”)....
Anyway, so I
(presented to
you as nothing
but myself, who
is “so cliché”...)
was asleep in
the park this morning... ... ...

mmdcclxxix

To Ache Well

I rarely do.
Have a comp-
lete thought
(you know,
without start-
ing another one,
I mean). Take
the rock I’ve
been sleeping
on for a week
now, for ex-
ample. Nice
view and all.
But it’s a rock!
And a very cold
one at that. And
however heavy
the wind blows
(also, quite
cold!), it never
really carries
me, my thoughts
or that confound-
ed rock (from
which what an
extraordinary
view!) away.
“Aw, shaddap,
Jim!” “Okay,
okay,” says I,
“good night,
Slim.” “Good
night to you,
too, Mis-
ter Jim.”
To which he
just has to
add, with
his arms
and his
four fing-
ers in the
air, look-
ing just
like the
metal-
head he
never was,
“You rock!”
Then morn-
ing crows.
And it’s
funny how
the aches
are never
terribly
funny until
years later.
“Years later,
Jim?” To which
we don our
Devo ziggurat
hats and fan out
into the wilderness

mmdcclxxviii

Making Up for Lost Time
    (the anti-maudlin)

“Who am I?” spoke
the Doolittle to the
Transamerica Pyramid.

“A dollar for a dollop
of muh hot sauce,”
spoke the master to

the orphaned squatter.
“Doomsday accrues,”
spoke Maestro Brosnan w/

a clean-shaven Irish brogue
o’course. The buildings at
the city’s center all hum in

a vibrant sort of way. The
foghorn is almost percussive.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!” spoke

the crow in advance of
the careening sun as the
kooky squirrel that hangs

near the top of the foreign
tree awoke (the kooky squir-
rel being, as usual, between

me and the bullish blue of
the big old bay). “How so
very ray!” spoke the squirrel,

which rhymed quite nicely
with the hum and the drum
of the hottish doom of a fog-

lit day; with the hum and the
drum and the salty-hot Irish doom
hovering over the stench of this over-

ripe foglit day. P.S. The squatter
kept squatting, the bull remained
quite the bully (even into elderly

bullishness) and I, myself, the very
narrator whose report you now seek,
went on my merry maudlin Monday way.

mmdcclxxvii

               Waa waa road divider
                         —Ted Greenwald

I gave myself sun-
burn!  And look who’s
at the doorway, look-
ing just as sinister as
he never looked, the
halo almost a floating
aura around this month’s
bangs.  Why, it’s YOU,
that’s WHO!  If, for ex-
ample, we were to ex-
change a glance or two
(we do, we did), I’d
think “and just to think,
it all started with I don’t
know you, you don’t know
me.  Right?”  Right.  But
somebody must have really
wanted to know something.
(Right?)  (And what a shame,
ignorance?)  (Right?).  “Hey,
sonny, can you make the
burn go a-way?”  Or can
you at least make it go
thattaway.  And to think,
the burn was the burn
of the party cake, the
slight heartburn of a
heart having a panic
attack.  And the angel
reminded the heart
that there was no panic
at all, was there?  No
panic at all. T hen the
burp.  Then the twinned
laughter.  “Can you make
the burn go away, kiddo!”
started without the de-
ranged scream, was
more of a simple whis-
per: “Burn it up daddy,
just burn it all up.”  Does
burn ever really go up?  

In that sense?  It goes
down, for sure.  “Look, 

it’s all burnt down,”
said Sally,
walking down
Conifer Lane
for the fif-
teenth time
in a row, thirty
months after it
all burnt down.
The 5-alarm fire
that didn’t even
fry the doorway.
If you look, or at
least when Sally
looks, she can
almost see the
cherub, his red
flowing cape,
and long ash- 

whipped nose.

mmdcclxxvi

2-Ache

Speaking
of Sir
Reality
again,
sir? How
very déjà
vu of you!
Quick, close
yr eyes and
make it just
another bad
dream (dream).

mmdcclxxv

A thrilling smack
            —Ted Greenwald

Who’s funnier when you’re
fifty (than when you’re in
your late thirties). I, be-
fore e, except after sex.
Which somehow sounded
just as good at fifteen.
This is everything, almost
the very end of everything,
the everything that gets
stolen right from between
my legs. Just got, that is.
What’s the difference be-
tween two black and gray
camouflage backpacks?
Funny just will not do for
this wise-ass crackpot,
will it? Speaking of off-
color humor ... just will
not do for this wisecrack.
More comedy ensues, it
never fails. For example,
take all of the instructions
at the Tenderloin Police
Department (a charmer of
a community haven, please
allow me to ensure you).
When asked about the
report I’d be filing, I
begin with fifteen pages
of handwritten words (“it’s
part of a much-larger pro-
ject,” I try to get out of the
dry craw near my goozle, and
somehow manage before the
now imaginary “and much,
much more...” comes out
like the square wheel of
my father’s long lost verb-
alized breath). Ah, libido,
how surreal! I think, smooth
as a song sung by Mel Tillis.
“...all of my important files,
you know, with labels like
‘bills,’ ‘housing,’ ‘job-
search,’ and ‘urgent.’”
“It was really just a back-
pack filled with earnest
modesty and endless ‘im-
portance,’” croons Tillis,
as if honey from my stut-
ters, “just a backpack
that fell alseep in the
wrong man’s backyard.”

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?