mmcmxlii

Mama Said Knock You Out

“Okay, have another,” she
insisted. “We have got to
get on the same level!” I do
believe that she was rolling her

eyes. She never learned. “That’s
absolutely correct,” said I. “But just
to warn you” [or is it just to remind
you?], “I’m already two steps behind

you,“ I faux-winced, before adding,
“but of course three levels atop ya.”
I glared back in the least menacing way
I believed I could, or at least I felt

that it had been, like my seconds-
ago performance of a fake
wince a tremendously fantastic and
completely non-judgmental meta-

phorical comparison, this time
between our two separate toxicities,
the degrees to which one of us was
higher and/or lower than the other.

I mean, she is a lightweight and all, but yet
one who is a magical combination of titan-
ium and sponge. Perhaps I’m the sponge...
made of titanium or something, is the

direction I allowed my mind to
drift. Let’s put it this way: I was ex-
tremely gifted at babysitting inebriants
my own age (and sometimes twice

my age; and on more than one
occasion, thrice!). It was one of
my many gifts, like popping out
my shoulder blades at church when

I was a child, so as to create the
utter confusion which would
quite audibly follow, coming from
pews behind me that (and here

neither age nor sex nor even the
degree of severity to one presented
oneself week-in and week-out would
have any bearing on this giggle-a-thon)

each thought they were witnessing the
swift birth of back-wards-pointing, ill-
sexed, terribly abnormal boobs (I suppose,
but I wonder for a split-second whether if

I were to actually have boobs, no matter
which direction they pointed, come on,
would they be pronouncedly ill-sexed?).
And this is when I pulled my version of

improper etiquette monster no no of the
year. My greatest fear had just happened.
I remember when it would happen to my
calculus professor in undergrad. He

would pause a moment too long,
visibly come back into the earth’s
atmosphere, contort his face into
a sort of frozen chuckle (with-

out chuckling at all, in actuality),
and then say both dreamily and
confidently, "Whoa!........Two trains
just collided in my head. I’m really

sorry but I have no idea what I was
just saying.” The best part was that
this would almost always coincide
with the end of the class for the day.

No matter whether it was anywhere
close to lunchtime. But on those
days when he didn’t allow the
tragedy that had just occurred in his head

to be a catalyst for class dismissal, he
would without fail call on me to answer
his next calculus question which did
not seem calculated at all, unless he

was seeking a bigger answer, like
my demise, because these would
always be non sequitur and some-
times even non-calculus queries,

riddles, I would even suggest would
be the better word, those questions
and queries. To this day I believe that 

it was only because I laughed the

hardest and the longest at his
cheesy train-brain-drain joke.
These questions would, in turn,
leave me completely speechless,

and probably more to the point
if my future would be an indication,
would leave me completely devoid
of humor, which meant, further-

more, that these questions, these
riddles, are just enough to catalyze
within me what I still believe to
be the front-end symptoms

of what I would later, and
with much more familiarity,
be able to self-diagnose: a
panic attack. (And, yes, these

attacks, and their frequency, have
amped up with a ruthlessly drawn-
out crescendo over the years). To
this day, I suffer from what my

therapist says (with a sly grin!) is
PTSD every time I hear a locomotive,
whether I am stopping for one to pass
or I hear it's familiar chug and the hideous

music that toots non-stop from its...
chimney. But that is a story for
another day. Or it would have been,
I suppose, had I but held my course

(no matter how low the likelihood of
that happening may be). This one is,
I recall, about how Tessie and I
relearn how much our incompati-

bility sags when we come up with
the brilliant idea to split a joint.
And apparently, she had just caught
the same nostalgic ball of wax that

I had, if not a few second before
(and, yes, a reminder to self: that no
matter how far gone she may seem,
she never fails to beat me to the

punch at anything...well...except pick-
ing up girls in bars ...which, truth be
told here, is not my idea of a winning
punch.) (Nor hers) (Not even close, in

either case.). So now she has collapsed
into her version of stitches, lying motion-
less and on my kitchen floor, which
was, in my case, a stone mosaic

depicting (by an arty friend of mine)
a rather bawdy interpretation of the
last supper (Get it? It’s such a splendid
idea. That is, if you love hours of deranged

conversations, which, among my friends, tends
to occur regularly — hours and deranged —
words which probably describe these pro-
longed word-heaps better than any other com-

bined pair. To a T.).  So Tessie lay motion-
less and stiff and seemingly unconscious,
which, to recap, was her way of projecting
emotion of any kind. And she initiates

this in an overly-dramatic fashion:
beginning with an all-in feigned faint.
Which I have, for better, or worse, some-
how come to block, un-see or, better put,

completely erase (but of course, inadvert-
antly), to fail to witness under any circum-
stance as it actually happens, even if she’s
standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside me

or, even more odd, quite literally mano a
mano). And when this collapse, her ‘faint’,
occurs, I am told she does it with such gusto,
with such awkward panache (which,

believe me, is not an oxymoronic pair of
words in her case...but there is no way any
explanation the duration of time of which
is less than that of a regular workday would

would do it justice, so just nevermind). She
performs this fete by dropping to the floor
as if fainting, and therefore she lands with
a slam, somehow into such contorted poses

as of those that fall to the street from some-
where near or at the tops of many-storied buildi-
ngs often appear after deciding their fate (or being,
pushed, which, little known fact, you can tell by the

look of their dead face if, indeed, the clump on the
street or sidewalk or atop a car or having been split 

by a trash-bin or whatever was murdered or rather 

killed by their own doing). Needless to say, somew-

here in the clump of Tessie which began as a col-
lapse my mind disputes, and who is now
a noiseless and movement-free, misshapen
pile on my kitchen floor, she is somewhere

in there (pejoratively and punnily) laugh-
ing her ass off. In fact, now this scene
is starting to make much more sense.
Because the moment she arrived

this morning with her (mandatory)
peach cobbler, she turns around,
makes a slate-cleaning movement
with her right arm and hand behind

her back (which, I might add is one of
her many brilliant and mind-boggling
talents) and proclaims to no one
in particular (to be more trans-

parent, I was the only other
human being in attendance at
this time), “My butt is getting
flatter and flatter, doncha think?

I am totally becoming my hus-
band,” to which I had to do some
quick and intense recollection,
and it turns out she was correct,

they do both have flat asses. This gar-
ners a rather less false look of menace
(I hope?). Sure, I was performing. It’s inevit-
able, isn’t it? Everything we do is a per-

formance. Really? Well, maybe it was. Per-
haps in actuality, I had become my own per-
formance. And why not? Because that’s
what we do, I pondered, reiteratively, just to let

it sink in. “Of course I’m not angry, darling,“ I
put on my best calm, my most convincing
matter-of-fact, and continued to clean
the kitchen counters. We had

just finished Comedy Brunch, our
own miniature version of Live
at the Apollo, in the breathable
comfort of my very own home.

It is our monthly gig, and while we were
often less than hilarious, we are a close-
knit mix of the people I love; friends for life.
And like those who live life, we’re made

of the most randomly diverse group
of individuals imaginable (I can on-
ly use my imagine to gauge, but you
get the picture). And, boy, when we

got together like this, it was always
such a hoot. Family does exist, if
even in the imagination. And, hey!
Do not knock it until you’ve tried it.

mmcmxli

California

     What are you thinking now?

     I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.
                                        —Jack Spicer

like life doesn’t?
only it does. he
positions him-
self at the cor-
ner of his bed,
the one corner
where the mat-
tress sinks into
the drastically
devastated box
springs. a day
does not pass
without me
thinking at
least one time
about my apart-
ment’s pre-
vious tenants:
those former-
ly most fam-
liar with this
room (of its
history, its de-
tailed structure,
the tales that
lie within the
slightly en-
larged coffin-
like/ -shaped
space of this
one-room home,
where many a
a dull story —
and perhaps a hand-
ful or two more
colorful stories —
persist). history.
alongside my
story. a safe
haven. a prison.
a hideout of in-
troverts and soc-
ially anxious ex-
troverts dying
for the comp-
any of a friend,
yet resigned to
the obvious: that
those folks are
long gone. which
leads to endless
hours puzzling
over why. want-
ing to believe that
suddenly, any mo-
ment now, they’ll
be back, maybe all
at once, as if arriving
at one of the many par-
ties you used to throw
just to prove that you
existed, but then
understanding
that now is now
and that then was
then, and so you
get over it,
you get better,
you begin to
really get it;
puzzlement
understanding,
getting better,
definitely not
understanding,
getting bitter,
understanding
better (not a
eureka! moment
for certain), def-
initely not under-
standing, etc.
muddling con-
cepts like loyalty
and commitment
zipping for light
years around in
your head. what
comfort is famili-
arity or domesticity
when just as you
finally begin to
believe in their
existence, they
are ripped away
from you by the
pickpocketer of
souls? now, at
my brokest, now
that I’m most-
ly broken, a
fucked-up for-
mer king who
just wants to call
a few of his courtiers,
who wants a desperate
word with the
jester, wants to
see and know that
his family, the in-
habitants of his
castle (his prison?)
are smiling with re-
cognition and out-
reached hands for
that electrically in-
timate touch of the
handshake. where
one’s hand meets
with the zinging grip
of another’s, in a
union that isn’t
yours. and will never
be. and the same goes
for the dream of being
tugged into a double
kiss, once upon each
blushing cheek; or
worse, the night-
of the firecrackers,
kisses that seem
giddily eternal as
they fall with sloppy
clarity upon the lips
and burn with the
intimacy of a child
suckling. where is
wisdom cash and
what can such
currency even
afford? must it
be pressed and
cut, then bound
as neatly as those
shelved manuscripts
gathering dust on the
bloated bookshelf
of any office, each
page having been
delivered verbatim
by nobodies lying
flat upon couches
to sleepy doc-
tors who act as
co-authors: collab-
orateurs with each
lying or sitting, slouch-
ing or erect body
with its head propped
upon a pillow, or
is at other times holding
it down with their hands
in some kind of int-
imate sorrow in
a stance that is
aimed either at
comfortable or
excruciatingly
uncomfortable;
peopled furniture
in countless over-
ly warm rooms
that dim an en-
tire continent. there
is, rather, a large por-
tion — the majority, let
us surmise — of the
human population,
who were each molded
in such a way that is
ideal for such collab-
orative work, either
to sit behind an
often oversized
wooden desk or
table built to
utilize the varied
alternative blocks
of furniture upon
which they are
each directed to
sit, or to lie. to sit
and to lie. com-
promise may very
well be earned,
during these hab-
itual efforts. and
when they are,
the tome con-
structed is quite
often as much
revelation as
it is anomaly. is
it that some are
born knowing...
who they are? and
if so, where or how
does this intuition
mutate, then thrive,
when sideswiped
by the glorious age
of self. this perpet-
uation is probably not
even apocalyptic. in
which case I am
missing something
crucial. maybe we
all are. how one
refuses to give
up seems to be-
come something
eternal. but. I
must believe and
advocate for those
who are happier and
make their optimistic
quest far more than
a small eternity of
delusion. they
do, however,
tend to die
in tragedy.
in most cases,
almost always,
no matter what.
what single word
could save your world
now? could save mine?
my connections, the
ones which were every-
thing to me, were real.
and yet just as suddenly
(and in tandem) were
flimsy, unreal. what
is this called? why
did they do that!? why
did they disappear
en masse at such
a critical moment?
I have no time to
dissect delusion.
one day there is
a world living,
breathing, engag-
ing and zigzagging
around you (dur-
ing which, take
time for gratitude,
I would advise),
and the next....
all of us are de-
clared dead.
to me. a clear
intention on the
part of the already
dead? what are
those who remain
to do with this? The
rumor persists that
they’re all very much
alive, thank you. and
they do not un-
derstand or care
what a few words
uttered or a horror
acted out as if the
world is just an opera
might do for anyone,
for me. it’s not exactly
the butterfly effect when
the eradication of a
a half-life or so of
fully lived engage-
ment blows up, right
before one’s eyes.
am I just as guilty?
is a cry for help
the same thing as
the act of pulling
slightly away? To
fail to see a single one
of these friends (I see no
other word for it: friends)
materialize, to watch as
each loved one disappears
synchronously at the front
edge of the most excruc-
iating period of one’s ex-
istence (a period, like ex-
istence, that can last a day,
a year, a decade, etc.), of
one’s life.... perhaps the
duration depends propor-
tionally upon the loss of
the cacophony, which, or
was, in all senses, the ob-
jective. wasn’t it? but
this... this has been my life.
I had a beautiful family, one
that was mutually agreed-
upon, tacitly or not. and
now it is gone. which of us
fools, me or my prodigal
family, still exists? I reach
toward an answer to each
day, but remain shrouded
in the silence that is left
behind, while desperately
trying to remember that it
once existed, just as I once
did, so as to not completely
deny myself of that reality.
For better or worse, I oc-
casionally become mot-
ivated to repeat this cycle,
to do it all again, to del-
usionally and deliberately
construct a new family,
just like the one I collab-
oratively built years ago,
forging siblings and part-
ners, to make my own
tiny country, a domicile
all my own. like the one
that lost the last war.
a war hatched for some
unspecified reason. that
is now only an erasure on
a map which I keep study-
ing. I moved through the
delusions with great con-
tentment and much hap-
piness; time had meaning,
then. so of course I will re-
ignite this quest. to what
end? I do not know any-
thing except this: engage-
ment is not delusion? I
hold each moment
the delusion was real.
they are inescapable,
unerasable, it turns out.
I will open different doors
as I move forward. some-
thing is missing. terribly.
rather than ask how to find
it, I look to you and ask: how
might you go about forging
a reality out of a delusion?
and why do I still believe,
my friend? my friend. yes.
because logic does not
prevail in such matters.
I do believe that the
delusion is real. I can
ask why, or for your take,
until, as they say, the cows
come home; until I am
blue in the face (both
inside and out). and so
I do. who would know
better than you?
so I persist. I ex-
ist. if but only so that
I might as well make
it my own, this
blessed delusion.

mmcmxl

sez the punch
i’ve got a hunch
you’re out to lunch.

except i am a pacifist
living within a handful
of miles from the pacific.

zing! goes the punch
swiftly past my ear.
the electricity.

i miss my cat.
i am a misser of
cats. a cat guy.

have i only
eaten candy
all day,

applying for
jobs as if the
holidays don’t

exist? i have
become too
close to my-

self. where
is another
country,

a new en-
gagement?
environment,

not fiancé.
there is a city
full of engagement.

where is this
city? it’s in
the backyard of

my head. name
one thing i do that
drives you crazy.

mmcmxxxix

    Light is a carrion crow
    Cawing and swooping. Cawing and swooping.
                                                             —Jack Spicer

A simple twist of fate can
take you places unimaginable.

This is good. You are better off.
You learn. You lose all of your

friends. You come back to life
alone. Your family and your

family (which you might have
always thought was the imp-

ortant one) disappear. You
walk around from one office

to another asking for direc-
tions, and you get some, and

you keep doing this, as if ex-
ploring the secrets of a city

you love, only to be at the
same place you were a

month ago asking the same
question you asked then, only

you’ve been so many places
you don’t even remember

that you were here before, ask-
ing the same question, and you

get a funny but familiar look from
the woman behind the desk, taking

all precautions to hide behind her
antiquated computer screen, only

to be told to go to some other place
and ask another question. You realize

then, aha! I’ve been here, you even
remember the question is the same one

you are about to ask the familiar face
that you have only just glimpsed as he

is taking precautions, too. A cinema,
your favorite sushi joints, a hop into

a Zipcar to head to Sonoma, for may-
be even a weekend, or only a day, some-

times alone but usually with friends,,,
or with your boyfriend with whom you

are happy,,,, You start a business, let’s
imagine it is for profit. It is still for a good

cause. You rake it in, take a vacation some-
place you have never been before? Sure,

Barcelona, Madrid, Vienna, Budapest,
Shanghai, Rio, Lima, Mexico City,,,,

But you’re in a gondola in Venice, you’re
debating the Eiffel Tower, afraid of heights,

you’re writing poetry at the Places des Voges,
literally sitting on the ground writing while read-

ing your favorite poet to read while in Paris,
because he spent a good portion of his own

life there. You’re on a cruise ship filled with
guys, about to dock in Puerta Vallarta, it is

not your first trip to Mexico this way. You’re
watching the Amazon burn, it is hot as hell

but you are enjoying this new adventure,
which is about as far away as you’ve

ever been before from familiar, and it
feels right. You are on a leaky boat melting

into the boiling Amazon reading a book,
the pages of which are burning, but each

only after you finish reading it. It is a book
by Robert Heinlein. You get the feeling

you have read it before, but it is a good
feeling. Unlike the feeling you had sitting

in the Places de Voges (nausea), Venice
on the Gondola (horrible stomach bug),

Rome (the flu). You are walking the streets
of Paris at one a.m. looking for a pharmacy,

but nothing is open (the vertigo that came and
went in your early 20s — you just turned 40).

mmcmxxxiii

Sorry for the Delay

Hi, has it been a problem? I mean
of course not, but I was remember-
ing earlier how last year seems like
yesterday. Or so very long ago. I
just noticed that you cannot have
the word agony without ago. And
it is right there at the beginning. Had
I never noticed this before? Is it a pro-
blem? What has made me notice now?
I mean, is the obvious always so obvious?

Dumb question. Of course not. I, for
one (as if there are others; are there
others?), cannot get Freud out of my
subconscious. Except, how could I know
that Freud was even in my subconscious
(duh because sub; I’ve always been
much more of a dom)? “Well isn’t that a
conversation stopper!” Who said that? I
want to immediately write a book about con-
versation stoppers. Well, actually just about

conversations. To narrow it down further, how
to actually have one. It seems to me that people
do not have them anymore. I have this theory (Is
this already a thing? Have I been beaten to the
punch, the pacifist, to his one significant theory?)
that this is because everyone exists in their own i-
maginary world. Well most everyone? I’d like to
say not me (of course), but not remembering your
past is sort of like living in a made-up world, am I
right?.... Anyway, when confronted with the gate-

way into the realm of reality, we freeze, choke
up, incapable of setting foot through it, either
by inevitably diverting from the entrance (this
can be done by sternly deciding not to even
dip a toe into the reality realm altogether
or by tucking tail between legs and galumph-
ing away like the Cowardly Lion) or by refusing
to even wander anywhere near the perimeter
or by getting anywhere remotely near the
fabled gateway to reality — ever again.

mmcmxxxii

It’s Actually Possible That It’s Okay To Be Stupid

Because I am stoned 1st time
in years the clouds play tricks
with my eyes, the sun cools
down the lengthening shadows

and my steps are within (myself:
my home).  This little heart of mine.
Thinking it must be hilarious that we
already found the suburbs and they

weren’t nearly as slutty as we had
imagined they would be.  Mom was
caught in an ice storm.  That shook
us to the core (do not try to peel me!).

Dad was sitting lotus-style in his pod,
which is not something to which one
listens but, instead, keeps noises in their
proper places.  So he could hear naught

from within nor without (said pod).  My
thoughts, those that are mine, what con-
sists of my mind, are two trains attempting
to pick up each of the individual Pick-Up-Stix

without moving any of the other Pick-Up-Stix;
are not intending to crash into each other,
to be jerked from their rails into a catchy
medley filled with upper-class death, though

as the game persists, even if metaphorically,
they are coming at each other directly,
each at a high-class speed that is most
certainly not to be sneezed at.  This is

a bit nervously witnessed by men on
horseback.  They are extras in a West-
ern being filmed about a mile away,
and are now each wondering at what

speed it is appropriate to sneeze.  The
Stix, I only now realize, startling myself a 

bit, were actually made of plastic.  I always
attempt to summarize, to rationalize.

Is it my nature or is it inherently human?
The fog, which wants to roll in this instant,
is nowhere to be seen, but, once here, will
erase everything that has come before it.

mmcmxxxi

Losing The Most Important Page Of A Speech
(And Giving It As If Your Life Depended On It)

Alligators and pythons (who get
along quite well, it turns out).  They

are a sight for sore eyes as the
sweet corn is ground into Sept-

ember.  In the tropics?  Yes, here
I am, like all of those who came

before me.  The peyote poets.  At
least until the first of the Arabian

horses (and, oh, such an infinite
trail of these succulently lithe

creatures!) trot upon my sun-
burned lips (How long?  The sun?)

and onto the inside of my jowl
(the side on the outside of which

is the un-sunburned side of my
face).  My mouth, still agape in...

something like hunger...so no
harm to the Arabians there.  But

then the epiglottis.  I choked a
bit.  A weak cough, I would say.

Then, as the horses still kept
marching inward and ever in-

ward, their infinite trail winding
infinitely, beyond eyesight on this...

mirage...this desert dune, I
begin to realize, How hilarious

I must look!  And this thought
is not without a tinge of

my own humor.  How hilarious
I looked!  Only I could not chuckle

(the Arabians, you see).  With
one full half of my body as red

as an all-but-perfectly-ripe
cherry; the other half as pale

as an ivory teacup full of tap-
ioca pudding.  Later the next

day, by the time the entire
entourage of Arabians had

ever-so-elegantly marched
into my half-burnt mouth,

down my throat and some-
how began to (surely with

some grace) swim in the hor-
rifyingly squalid juices that

dared remain in my stomach,
juices that were flowing freely

again, I could feel the energy
that I had once known so long

ago, when as a child, it truly
must have been.  In fits

and starts at first.  But
then, it was my manhood

again.  And later, no small
amount of puberty (which,

as it turns out, were my
less awkward years)....

Anyway, the juices were
flowing again and my eyes,

my lachrymal glands, were
most definitely...yes...they

were leaking, and soon even
flowing like rivulets on either

side of my snotted nose.
And I desperately had to pee.

Should I do it with the Arabians
in me?  I wondered aloud. Al-

ways aloud, this incessant
voice that is my very own.

Or, more at, should I do it for
the Arabians.  And this I thought

silently as I began to rise and
without a hint of a limp or a

stumble upon wave after wave
of sand, began to make my way

to what had become of my house,
which I had built with FUTURE all

of those years (?) ago upon a rock.
In truth, I surmised, as I had for

what seemed like eons this fu-
ture that had all but disappeared.

Was, perhaps, like this so-called
future: always a steady fog, spread

right there in front of me, as if
butter on the tastiest egg with the

largest circumference that would
lean out the edges of all sides of

the square pillows of toast.  And
then I wondered what Gary would

think.  About all of this.  The dunes.
The burns.  The banished future.

And the Arabians.  I knew precisely
that he’d be heart-on-sleeve giddy

with the curiosity that always was
life to him.  Taken so young.  That

shit-eating grin, that unnecessary,
yet omnipresent, I don’t care; I

know I’m having fun now att-
itude that never left him, even 

at the end.  Not a suicide, but....
I often contort my face in honor

of that grin, which does not feel
so good when it is as half-burnt as

it is at present.  And as my mind
wandered on, in its odd but log-

ical way, I wondered, this time
aloud again, And what would

Dad have thought? It was to 

relieve myself of tension that

I actually said Dad instead of
Father, but for a moment I got

just a bit caught up in the re-
telling.  Which means he must

still be here.  Somewhere.
What would Dad’s presence

have to offer? An uncom-
fortable wave that works its

way through one’s body, from
the toe-tips to the top of the

head, giving one that humble
feeling of knowing that one is

blessed?  Why, yes ! And then
some, I added aloud. This thought

about my father, about Dad,
proved amazing to me at which-

ever moment, and as I stand
here before you, my scalp is

tingling.  Because among so
many other profundities that

one thinks, or sometimes just
dreams up, while stranded in

the middle of a desert’s mirage
of an oasis, in that paradise

I realized that my father —
the cop, the mailman, the house-

painter, the cattle-rancher, the
fence-pole digger, the artificial

inseminator (back to the cattle,
as it were — it was a thing in

that era — in fact he was offic-
ially certified), the volunteer fire-

man, the owner, at one point (and
at some points even simultaneous-

ly), of a donkey, a mule and a Kawa-
saki motorcycle —— I thought that,

well, I thought that my dad was more
of an artist than I would ever be.  Would

he roll over in his grave, the man
who never let me get over the fact

that I switched majors in under
graduate school from Chemistry

(almost had it, in fact) to Theatre
Arts (and I personally paid for

all of my education after I left
home at seventeen; it was part of

the deal)?  Do people do that?
Roll over in their graves?  Or

wherever the remains of their
bodies lie, some in ashes spread

here and there, some in bits and
pieces in places too numerous

to imagine?  Others, of course,
in literal graves, I suppose.

I am a success at imagining.
It is one thing I can do.  I do not

know if I am an expert.  It is not
something for which I had an

apprenticeship, an education. I
do not hold regular conver-

sations with others who might
be better or worse at it than

I am.  I do not hold regular
conversations at all.  And so,

I decide to enjoy this feeling
of cockiness about imagination.

Which is when Larry shows up.  Is
punishment the greatest allure

of words?  I wonder aloud.  Impede-
ment.  Integument.  Impertinent.

The road to redemption
is long and arduous, is

wild and fun, is up and
down, heaven and hell.

mmcmxxx

There was a bit of an auspicious but
clearly detectable mumble at one end
of the giant dining hall in which a fam-
iliar discussion had begun to engross the
men from the North and South sides of
the border, a tradition that had begun
years ago. The two traditions: one
was the dinner they were now enjoying
together, one of only four times a year
in which they officially mingled, these
two factions (of course they were not
the first...) that inhabited the local
land. And the other tradition was the
subject with which they were by now
fully entertaining, with mostly respect
and only a few loud voices coming from
a smattering of red-faced fogies: talk of
a long-ago love affair, a suicide, a murder
or three, another purported suicide that
ended it all — or one would think. But.
Perhaps it was just the story about the
border, between the two states, an old
and very random wooden fencerow (a
property signifier, they still liked to call
it — by which I suggest that the discussion
captured the attention and engaged all
of those at the table: those from north
of the old fence, and those who resided
to the south of it), well, that fence was to
become the basis for the official border
between the Dakotas at this time. It was
1889. The party in this grand ballroom
(the joke about in the middle of nowhere
was beginning to be grumbled) always
got a bit rowdy at this point. The con-
versation was not exactly a tradition. It
was just something not to be forgotten.
Not by these men. And this was the
one time it always was brought up. The
Lindseys weren’t really thinking about
the crows that dropped to the fence every
day about the same time; an ominous
sense of foreboding thought the Milliners
(some had already reduced the name to
Miller, but they were still mostly called
the Milliners in this era), but they were 

thinking more about the women, and how 

it could not be escaped that those from
one side of the fence had a certain
homeliness (some even used the word
possessed) look about them. On the
other side were deemed the beauties.
On this notion, both sides most often
agreed. These were quintessentially
male arguments, of course; the women
were yet to be allowed at the function,
except for the cooking and the cleaning.
Not to be heard or hardly seen. And now
this gathering of men had moved on to the
more jovial topic, that always followed the
grumbling about the randomness or the clear
thievery of the fencerow that became a border
and would always round out the evening: they
began to speak of the love story between the
an up-and-coming young man on one side of
the fence who fell for a low-lady, as they
were often still called, from the opposite
side. This was, of course, anathema to the
tribesmen. But, always, as this nostal-
gic epic took over the conversation,
the rowdiness became congeniality
and literal awe for the lovers on both
sides of the fence and what became
of their love, which was tragic.
Although no one was present
at the table that had actually
known either party, it had become
a bit of a legend; a sort of modern-
day equivalent to the Capulets versus
the Montagues in Romeo and Juliet,
even though none of these men likely
knew a thing about Shakespeare
except, perhaps that Shakespeare
was Shakespeare [sic?]. This part of the
discussion carried inevitably on into the
parlor that wrapped the giant old home
and took up what must have been an acre
of the dry surface of what was normally
a cracked earth template toppled with
incessant and swiftly-flowing tumble-
weed during the months when the
surface of the earth was not snow-
covered.

The youngest of the Lindsey men eventually
managed manipulatively but somewhat
subtly (he did have a golden tongue, or
so it was often repeated) to veer the talk 

toward the story of the lady he called the
Frippery Gaul Girl that he currently had
more than just his eyes on (this particular
frontier's Romeo of the moment, this young
Lindsey fellow turned out to be). He made 

his way to the parlor first, which wrapped
neat clean around the full front of the
mansion (which is what everyone still
called the old Dullmyer place to this day,
even though it now served as more of a
traditional meeting hall, and yet in this
case, the word mansion was an appropriate
description), a place which swore out most
all frontier creatures small enough to sift
through the windows as well as those large
or wily enough to break through the windows
or even the doors (the screens of both of
which had been special-made in Sweden
of the extraordinary exquisitely-stitched
linen-like but vividly see-through tiny
wires). One of the screen doors was
closed and there seemed no way out of
it from the inside and, one always had
to imagine, had no easy way to enter
from the other side, unless you were
one of those fantastical creatures
microscopic. All of this created a
sense of peace for these third-gen-
eration settlers whose progenitors
had originally been warring factions.
It had begun with one outspoken
family from a few miles east with a
grudge against the longstanding
family of old world money. The
monied clan had already been living
here longer than anyone knew by
the time the tensions even arose.
There was always much discussion
about how and why this grudge began.
Everything about this monied family was
near ancient now, but there still remained
the sweet and spoiled youngest heir, Julie
(yes, a name so similar to those of the
many such quarterly round-table discussions
which transpired here ar the old Dullmyer
mansion (the Dullmyers, as has been noted,
being that old wealth family of local lore).

But that story is for another time. This eve-
ning, around that grand table in a place that
seemed destined to retell a Shakespearian
tragic love story four times a year, despite
the general ignorance in these parts of that
certain universal British playwright and poet.
And so they did, well into the evening.
Young Lindsey and his best mate,
clearly meant by Lindsey to attend
solely as a companion to remain
unnoticeable, finally, indeed rather un-
noticeably, lit his pipe and began the ritual-
istic trek toward the door, a sort of a double-
file hand-shaking ceremony out of the
mansion door and into the night,
as was the tradition, with each man
taking off toward his respective home,
whether it stood on this side of the
border fence or on the other.

As he was walking out, In fact,
the young Lindsey's awe of the
this new woman who he intended
to make his wife engulfed him into
the realization that she was not so very
frippery at all. She was so very near his
age, which was an unheard-of character-
istic of the general courting which trans-
pired in the area. And as he walked out
into the moonlight he suddenly realized
how terribly he had mischaracterized his
love, had indeed not even realized what
it was about the young Miss Gaul that
really caught his fancy. And this realiz-
ation gave him a pleasant pause. Not
an uncomfortable nor a worrisome
one. But, quite simply, he opened
his eyes to the fact that he loved
her for she was remarkably full
of intelligence. One might even
say that she was combustible
with sage wisdom. Fancy that,
he thought as he left the cam-
araderie of the former foes’
traditional gathering. And
he began to take on a strik-
ingly abnormal spring to his
gait thanks to an unusual lightness
of his person, the back of the soles
of his makeshift shoes never seem-
ingly making contact with the earth,
never resting from tired ankles,
as if a man on a very important
mission, for the miles that he walked
on his way back home that night, look-
ing ever so forward to seeing the
handsome Miss Gaul at the earl-
iest possible convenience. Yes,
the absolute earliest possible
time, he kept saying in
his head, with a smile
that brought on the
most engaging
dimples. Which
was a trait of the
men from both sides
of the wall that rep-
resented the border
between the old
warring factions had

in common, for of

course, as we all are, 
related human beings.

mmdccxxxvii

Desirous

           (Achizm #1)


And then…

I wanted to hold

the smoke – the

double-handful

of special breath-

ing smoke – way

up high.

High

over the elk

standing frozen

on the mountain’s

large winter-

time cliffs

where they

always

maintain

the fogged

bluffs of

desire.

mmcmxxix

The window is a sword.
           —Jack Spicer

And the pen is might-
ier. Or so said Edward
Bullwer-Lytton in 1836.
Ink on the outdoor side

of a window is usually
graffiti, which is van-
dalism. As I write you
a poem using my pen

on this window, my
nose, pressed ag-
ainst it, cold, each
breath making

two streaks of
condensation
flaring down
toward the sill,

elongated
triangles,
snow
cov-

ering,
the fam-
iliar land-
scape

of my
view,
which
lies in-

ches now
underneath
the powder,
getting stick-

y.... Back
when Bos-
ton was
my

world.
Now,
that dis-
tant view

gives
the land-
scape of my
memory brain-

freeze. Hot
and sticky
in San Fran-
cisco; unu-

sual, but
now hard
into autumn.
And it has been

this way since
springtime. No
snow in 20 years.
Now the cold ice

in my head might
as well be hot;
hot like a tongue
stuck to a flagpole.

mmcmxxviii

Darling, I said
with my head
out the window,
do not set foot
in the hot tub!

And then I zoom-
ed off to LaLa-
Land for the
afternoon, a
splendor in the

noontime sun, 
a foreshadowing
of many of the 

beautiful things

that were 

to come.

mmcmxxvii

Blow Me Like Hot Coffee (or Cocoa)

With marshmallows, if cocoa, or, in the
language of Northwestern Arkansas, the
less formal but perfectly legitimate phrase
is: hot chocolate (or, more accurately: hot

chocklit). If it’s coffee, none of that
Keurig catastrophe that has demolished
the coffee shelves at supermarkets
everywhere. Go to Trader Joe’s and

pick up the 10 Instant Coffee Pack-
ets (their own brand), “all dressed up
with creamer & sugar” as it says on the
front of the box, along with “just add water”

and “ideal for travel.” For a buck ninety-nine.
10 instant packets! And if you’re fresh out of
dainty coffee mugs the size of which are often
seen in European bistros, make sure you use

2 packets. Or 3. Simply snip the tops off.
Blow to open. Pour into hot water. And enjoy

mmcmxxvi

Tastes Like Burnt Chicken

You know how some razor blades,
most particularly those that are the
cheapest and most quickly dispos-
able, often fleck your face with

constellations of red spots? Blood
barely escaping, as if a small spot
has been pulled to reveal a red
freckle? These same blades can

seemingly more easily slice or peel
the bottoms of noses, and comp-
letely remove any upheaval of the
face, be it a mole or a pimple or

an old-man skin-flap. Well,
I cannot even afford one of
those razors at the moment.
Even though I have several

job interviews this week. A
job. The whole idea of employ-
ment has me feeling like a help-
less nincompoop for the past

few years. I’ve been
flailing, which is not an action I
had been used to before five or
six years ago. I have been, it

seems, unable to grab hold,
even as I attempt for dear life
to do so. I was staying at my
friends’ place the other night

and I swear I suddenly (it was
the middle of the night, and
I was doing paperwork for a
new business I have begun,

my one and only business,
if it ever becomes a business)
saw a black whirling portal on
the wall across the hallway from

the main bedroom door. And
it did sort of startle me. I
chalked it up to a lack of
sleep, but when I mentioned

it to my friend the next morn-
ing, as I was just about to say
I saw the portal — I must have
gotten through I saw — and my

friend, he just finishes my
sentence matter-of-factly,
without even looking
up from whatever it was

he was doing (something in-
volving electronics, I am
quite certain), with, Oh, you
saw the portal? Yeah, it

comes and goes. I must ad-
mit I had a bit of shiver go
up my spine. Not an
ordinary feeling for me.

I did not otherwise know
how to respond, except
to laugh and call him
ever the jokester. But...

he finished my thought
before I had ever even
mentioned anything
the least bit...super-

natural. I have to
raise a bunch of
money in the next
few hours. It seems

likely it is not going
to happen. For my
business. For my
life. For my dream.

Which has gotten (my
life, my dream, what-
ever might become
of my mark on this

world) muddled so
badly in the past
few years that this
is something I have

gotten used to. But
this time it’s different.
I cannot...will not lose
this dream? And yet

here I sit writing this
meandering set of
thoughts to you in
a set of four-line

stanzas, as if I
have the time.
Even though my
business does

very much in-
volve stanzas
and poetry and
community (a

concept I’ve
forgotten what
means, exactly).
So am I in the

business of help-
ing my business
by writing this to
you now? No, of

course not. I am
just doing my work.
For once, not pro-
crastinating. Doing

the one thing I seem
to know. Can do. Can
sometimes do well,
even if you might dis-

agree. I ask you, Do
you follow me? This
garbled story of me?
Do you feel my panic

as I write these words
as if calm as the ocean
tide sifting over the
finest sand on the coast?

mmcmxxv

Nickelodeon

Yesterday, on Halloween, the House voted to formalize
the Peach Inquiry.  Stephen Colbert makes it sound
true and funny even when I mishear him.  But right
now I’d much rather be watching the Nickelodeon
channel than The Late Show on my Chromebook.  I
wonder aloud if I can stream it.  Nickelodeon.  But I
quickly move forward from that thought because I can-
not turn off Stephen Colbert.  (My best friend often asks,
punningly, Why don’t you marry him? To which
I give him a glare, tell him he’s married, and remind
him that he’s a Sunday School teacher, to boot.)  Then
begins a riff in the monologue about when Rudy Giuliani
butt-dialed an NBC journalist.  The problem is we need
some money, coming in loud and clear.  Then, We need
a few hundred thousand.  And I think, Corruption be
damned, so do I.  Only, realistically, I need only one thou-
sand.  If I’m being really realistic, I need about two; just
two of those thousands.  But Stephen Colbert seems to
want to stall my efforts, or so YouTube keeps telling me
(using Colbert’s voice, of course).  Then I remember
how different (and similar?) this is to when I’d actually
panhandle online when I was homeless.  I was homeless.
This still hits me like an exclamation point.  The ramifi-
cations of that fact seem to never end.  Homelessness.
Online.  Panhandling.  Online homeless panhandling
seems infinite to me.  I am in the moment, so it might as
well seem endless.  What can be eternally noted, I believe,
is that two of those words kept the other from what I can
only assume would have been something this weak soul
could not have endured.  Not to get to this lovely little room
in which I now exist (watching The Late Show), on what I
lovingly call the seediest couple of blocks in town...well...
this San Francisco story might be completely different.
And probably unnoted, unnoticed, not even a footnote
would be left of all of — what my pink heart-shaped tin
full of pennies says: MY DREAM HAS JUST BARELY
STARTED — of me and my dream.  Dreams, more acc-
urately.  But tonight I am only thinking of one dream,
which is a combination of several dreams when it comes
down to it.  The dollars I need now are for a burgeoning
business, and not a bed indoors somewhere.  Note to
self.  I had strategy.  I always had that.  But back-up
plans?  They have always been a bit too rare.  Sure,
I recently had a job I loved.  But it only lasted a month, 

due apparently to no fault of my own.  I was but a pawn.
Business.  Where are my bargaining chips this time?
Do I have any left?  I think too hard that I do not.  I
am generally quiet now about my homeless past,
but if a question occurs in conversation that needs
it brought up, I am quite open; not so quiet.  I walk
around town as if everyone knows.  I type a cover
letter as if everyone already knows. I write this
poem as if everyone knows.  And if you do not,
you do now, right?  All I know at the moment is
I must come up with a few dollars or I lose my
new business, which wasn’t always mine, not
until I lost all of my money on a romantic getaway;
until I gambled away my future, or at least several
years of it (hopefully, not my final several years!).
And this time my actions make me only one of the
losers.  I try to be excited about the future.  I usually
am.  I was, even during most of the worst of the past
five years or so.  Yet I must take this tiny org chart
of mine into the next month, and the next year,
and so on.  I am so ready to five-year plan the
hell out of it that it hurts.  Because I need over
a thousand dollars in cash.  I used to raise more
than this quite swiftly when I was homeless.  And
before.  Boy, was it a comfort.  It was survival, too.
And there was always this dirty feeling I had just for 

asking.  So much so that I would almost always ask a 

bit too late for it to help as much as it could have. 

These days, I walk past (and over) my old colleagues 

at the shelter, familiar sidewalk figures.  They need
a thousand dollars much more than I do.  I could
say the same of the majority of the world’s popul-
ation, I presume.  This is a way to bridge the gap,
I think aloud, wondering exactly what I mean by 
that.  And why out loud?  Making good on doing some-
thing after managing my way through that.  It
makes it hard to find the gusto to do anything
that is not giving a thousand dollars to anyone
I see who I think needs it.  But I need the money.
And I mean it.  And, not one to feel guilty for much
of anything in this life — for any extended duration
of time, anyway — my stomach is now twisted into
knots and I cannot bring myself to begin.  Panhandling.
Well, this pen says without my uttering one single word,
let’s put down our pity and put out a plan of action!
To which Stephen Colbert responds, What else is there to do?

mmcmxxiv

Smear

Turn on
the tee
vee. W
atch all
the hyp
ocrisy.
Smear
a knife
full of
pean
ut butt
er over
the last
pieces
of the
dark
loaf
from
who
knows
when.
Give
out a
few
span
kings
for Ha
lloween
tricks.
Look d
own the
hallway
at who’s
coming
by for
his tr
eat now
(of all the
times)....
Slam the
door shut.
Call it
a day.

mmcmxxiii

I forget

the plan-
et revolves

around
the sun.

The moon
joins too

soon.  A
crow on a

wire is
worth two

on a cell-
phone.

“It ain’t
the plan-

et that’s
dyin’,” says

my Grandma
Hazel in

my head,
“it’s the

roll of a
pair of dice.”

Which
makes

“paradise”
her last

exhalation.
Another

game of
trivia that

the saints
play like

chess
while

we pond-

er our

next
move.

Like we
do the

plastic
oceans.

mmcmxxii

Pill Popping Pilferers

Pill popping pilferers often do not
even realize that they are pilferers,
that they have been pilfering.  One
of them might come home of an
evening to discover a series of
baubles in her pockets, some twenty
dollar bills and a baby’s pacifier,
and she’s pretty sure she hasn’t been
to one of those Union Square eng-
agement ring / fancy gemstone stores
(“I was hanging in Oakland with
friends last night, right?” she mum-
bles to herself).  She knows without
a doubt that she’s been flat broke for
months now and is still surprised by
Jackson’s gigantic head, even though
deep down she knows this is not a recent
development in paper money.  Bobble-
headed presidents and statesmen and
women (she wonders for a moment
and then decides no on stateswomen)
and famous inventors (like most of us in
this country, she took American History
and has probably therefore yet to
catch up with the reality, or surreal-
ity, of the things she knows most to
be tried and true).  She remembers
that Ed gave her money a few days
ago for a bottle of rum (airport sized,
plastic, so $5 was the grand sum) but
has no idea how she has now been
jinxed with such an inevitably joyous
but also downright scary stroke of luck, 

in that utter lack of remembering way.
And she’d been through similarly
frenzied pocket discoveries where,
in the end, that initial excitement
had been entirely erased.  Nope, any
joy from what she’d found in the
bulging depths of her hand-pockets,
it was not pretty, and she winced at
the thought.  And as for the baby pacifier,
she placed it immediately in her mouth and
began sucking it loudly, tiny little droplets
coming from her eyes.  And she hadn’t
even bothered to wipe the nubbin clean.

mmcmxxi

Crisis

The bowling alley was drenched.
He stands at the gate of depart-
ure, wondering, Should I stay or
should I go? The pastel-colored
eggs in the gigantic basket were
misshapen. Suddenly, she rem-
embers the roll of film that she
had dropped into her generous
vodka martini. Poor Ginger has
a strong distaste for ginger (and
also for lemongrass). Chomp-
ing for minutes over the bowl,
knowing he looked like a horse,
he regretted spooning up the
last dregs of soup into his
mouth with greed (for
it was a spoonful of no-
thing but lemongrass,
as it turned out). I am
eternally amazed at how
she does it, those mir-
aculously perfect hot
buns. The District
Attorney melted slow-
ly and sweetly into the
District Superintendent's
lonely mouth (same district).
All of the humans missed the
parade in Area 51 that Monday
afternoon. Gigantic fluorescent
bulbs light the Grand Canyon
tonight. An alternate universe
where Billy Joel is the super-
model. Pillow Talk, starring
Doris Day and Dale Evans.
The starship Enterprise crash-
lands on the planet Tatooine.

mmcmxx

How much longer are you gonna be here?
                                    —Kris Jenner

I do not watch television.
I guess what I really mean
is I watch tv quite rarely.
These days, anyway.

This was not always the
case.  I turned the te-
levision off for about
ten years around 2000
(the year that I moved
to San Francisco, as it
turns out).  Because it
was all Reality TV, Who
Wants to Be A Money
Money Money Money,
American Idol.  Even
Lost looked like a cross
between a soap opera
and Survivor to me.
To me, television
was filled with no-
thing but total trash.

Then, about a decade
later, with a huge new
television, and a room-
mate who watched it
(at least Nick at Nite
and the Cartoon Net-
work), I’d occasion-
ally watch TV.

During that decade
plus, I got used to
enjoying shows I
never watched but
learned to love.  It
was a domestic thing,
it seems, upon re-
flection.

Soon, network shows
exploded on the internet.
That’s how i look at it, any-
way.  Suddenly, after bingeing
on Mad Men and Damages,
watching TV was not synony-
mous with having a lobotomy,
or at least having one’s
intelligence (should one
have any) insulted.

These days there’s Netflix
and Hulu and Amazon and
CBS (Yes, CBS has been
around forever, but that
is a network to which I’d
certainly subscribe, were the
extra money necessary to
do so at my disaposal.
Should I add only
because of the
new Star Trek?).
Even HBO
seems
a must
again,
just

to
keep
up with
pop culture.
And there are
so many good shows.
When Meryl Streep
appears on a weekly
drama, you know
the world has
changed.

So why am I
writing this
poem sitting
here in my
friends’ hotel
room (we happen
to be watching
The Kardashians;

It’s my first
time, it seems nec-
essary to add)?  I
feel old as I try not to
listen to what they are
saying on the monster set
in front of the cushy hotel
couch upon which I am sitting.

And uncomfortable
and embarrassed
as the world moves
away from me.

mmcmxix

Second in a Pair of Poems Found in
a 2017 Leatherbound Calendar
Picked Up on a SOMA Sidewalk:

THE PRESIDENTS BUSH

mmcmxviii

Found Love Poem

mmcmxvii

Ted and the Giant Pumpkin Book

I am an extrovert
who has social
anxiety.  It is to
be expected.  I
am a Gemini.

It is said that
dogs yawn
uncontroll-
ably when
they are

anxious.
I gleaned
this striking
tidbit from
a Ted Talk

given by a
man named
Jon Ronson.
Jon read the
entire DSM

(which is the
now larger
than ever
manual filled
with a list of

the descriptions
of the 374
purported
mental dis-
orders) 

to discover 

that amongst 

his own were
generalized
anxiety 

disorder,
nightmare dis-
order, in which
he has recurrent
dreams of being

chased by
creatures where-
ver he goes
who constantly
tell him that he

is a failure.
And he suffers
from malingering,
which, accord-
ing to Psychology

Today, (accord-
ing to Google)
is “the purp-
oseful production
of falsely

exaggerated
physical and/
or psycholog-
ical syptoms
with the goal

of receiving
a reward.”  I
am about a
third of the
way through

this Ted Talk
on YouTube
and I’ve already
received quite
the reward.

I linger long
enough to hear
how Jon met
with a Scient-
ologist (because

of course he
wanted to meet
up with a critic of
psychiatry), a man
named Brian,

who he asked
“Can you prove
to me that psy-
chiatry is a
pseudo-science?”

to which Brian
said “Yes, let me
introduce you
to Tony,” who,
as it turns out,

is in Broadmoor,
which used to be
known as The
Asylum for
the Critically

Insane.  That
is as far as I
have gotten.
I took a break
to write you

this quick note
about our trip
to the Pumpkin
Patch (which
you like to call

The Funny Farm).
We will take off
at 5 in the morn-
ing.  Dress warmly,
in layers.  There

may be a bit of
sun; be sure to
wear a cap or
something.
And we can

grab lunch at
Half Moon Bay
on the way back
up, and be home
by around 6pm.

Sound good?
I know that I
suffer from de-
pression.  And
lately I have be-

gun to think
that I have a
set of imaginary
friends.  Well,
lately?  Act-

ually, I’ve had
them pretty much
as far back as I
remember.  In
fact, that reminds

me, I must call
my friend Jim
this afternoon.
Anyway, I look
forward to see-

ing you this Sat-
urday.  No negative
talk, remember?
The glass is al-
ways half full!

mmcmxvi

Diaspora

     Sometimes you want to believe people are something that they are not. By the time you
     realize who they are, it’s too late.
                                                                                    —Storm from X-Men

What’s the matter,
did a cactus get
your tongue?

I could tell by the
tone of his voice
that he was having

a problem parsing
the package. He
went on with his

story, Anyway,
I could tell that
he had a little

sugar in his
trunk. At this
point I am caught

between a laugh
and what’s the
matter did a cactus

get my tongue.
Salty Wednesdays.
Groups full ot tears

and sarcasm (large
meetings, reparation,
recreation, rumination,

graduation). I won!
shouted the man at
the cash register.

We were at the
corner store. I
knew Mr. Corner.

As the winner
walked out the
door I said, Hey,

Tony, another
wiener, eh?
I cringed as

if I were the
one that was
cringeworthy.

Rama lama
ding dong,
Tony said,

unable to
discontinue
laughing,

ha ha ha
Rama...ha
ha ha lama...

etc. Happy
Humpday!
says my

gabby
comp-
anion

to nobody
and every-
body at the

same time
(it was just
the three of

us in the
store by
now, but

you could
still hear
the winner

howling his
way down
the street,

heading in
the direction
of what was

once my home
away from
home...)....

mmcmxv

Rewritten Arkansas

     You only have the right to piss in the fountain
     If you are beautiful.
                                               —Jack Spicer

Yesterday I did not
encounter any fount-
ains.  That is not true.

My youth is enshrined
within the hope for
a future; I scan the

hustle and bustle
around me at any
particular moment

until I spot the one
hustler and bustler
who brings a little

tingle up my spine.
The hustlers at
Union Square, no

different than the
bustlers at the
Metreon Target

or, I walk all
the way to
Pier 39

(always
loving to
play the

tourist;
like the
hustler

I believe
I am not,
nor never

could be,
gut even I know
where to find

the best catch!)
until I spot
The One.

My work has
just begun.
I am enshrined

within the twill
(or the tulle)
of the until.

’Twill happen
one day,
this until.

Like Ponce
de Leon
searching

for, and be-
lieving he
had found,

he had “dis-
covered” (as
we “learned”

in junior
high school;
the class:

Arkansas
History)
the glorious

Fountain of
Youth, his
life-long dream,

in Hot Springs,
Arkansas.
De Leon,

the discoverer
of Arkansas,
The Natural

State, that
great home-
base of my

imagination,
the wondrous
Land of Oppor-

tunity.  And
also, as a side-
note, the home of

the “Chocktaw,
Chickasaw,
Cherokee,

Creek...and
sometimes
Sioux.”

But is that

true?

mmcmxiv

Aftership

Take note
of the date
of birth (the
infant squeals).

This could
just be a
case of
queer love

at the cele-
brity divide,
he joked to
himself. Be-

ing himself,
he joked, a
lover, not a
fighter. He

joked. Put
the kibosh
(he did) on
hallucino-

genics be-
cause of
the scream-
ing angels.

Always,
the ang-
els, scr-
eaming!

At last, be-
ing once
a sheep,
the word

he felt was
reborn. The
scorn I feel
is the waste

of time
it took
to get
here.