mmmxxi

The time is now.

History suggests 

that now is the 

time.  Now is 

where the me 

of the future 

will focus his 

gaze in order

to see me.

I’ll be using

instruments

with the latest

technology,

along with

all of the 

focus I can

muster, just 

to hone in to

the me of now.  

In order, that is,

to determine

how on- or

off-course

the future

me is.  This

will most hope-

fully arm him

(the future me) 

with whatever we

need to adjust

our course

accordingly.

Should I make

this place bright,

go find a spotlight

to stand underneath?

Should I make a big

mess so I’m easy

to find or slyly

hide my exact

coordinates

somewhere I

am sure that I

will find when

the time arrives;

that best moment

to come in which

now can most 

possibly be

impactful? But. 

Might I even offer

a clue at all as to

whether I'm going

the right way, or

whether, instead,

I have ventured 

wildly astray?

It just seems

to me that I 

could not even

possibly offer 

the tiniest clue

to the me of

the future as

to whether

either of us

is aiming in

any way at

the place we 

most hope to live

to see – and, if not

– how might the

poor pitiable me

of now hold the

key to finding

which way that

would be? What

help might I 

give so that

an even elder 

me might finally

arrive?  Why,

given the me of

now, should I

even think it

a chance 

there’d be a

future me? 

This is a bit

of a quandary,

and one that

appears as

urgent as it 

is hopeless. 

Time is of the

essence, they

say.  But given 

how far off course 

we’ve sure to have

drifted, thanks esp-

ecially to me, and 

the lousy timing 

of my recent

unexpected 

detours, will

it even matter

if I am found?

Will there even

be a me that 

repeats the

same exercise

that the me

of times past

and future (?)

have been so 

meticulous to 

repeat (but how

long this repeti-

tion?), now that 

I have proven

wisdom and

maturity irrel-

evant when it

comes to the 

pie in the sky 

notion that

life is best

experienced

as a quest for

paradise?  That

age makes the

human?  That

the best years

in life are, stat-

istically speaking,

yet to come?  Or 

did I have it wrong 

all along?  Am I

following this

inherent / in-

determinate

map toward

an impossible

nirvana?  One

that I never

shall, in this

incarnation,

see?  For

what great

fete befits

this existence,

a journey or

a destination?

I suppose I’d

better quickly

make my mark 

as pronounced

as I can.  Because

on the whole, I’d rather

give us all a chance

to see.  Hello out

there!  I hope you

can find me!  Here 

I am.  Hey!  If

you’re out there 

can you please 

look this way?!

mmmxx

Text Message No. 8

(a stunningly ignorant

look at where dreams

end and nightmares

begin)

How embarrassing

to be alive in the 

21st Century, when

the powermongers,

former playboys,

will only perform

for the dunder

heads?  And what

heartache it is to

watch as these

aging puffballs

play stupid;

to witness

the speed

at which ev-

olution can be 

completely re

wound and per

haps irrevocably 

[?!?] undone!

We scratch

our poor 

heads into

complacency

wondering how

we awoke from 

such long elysian

dreams only to

find ourselves ig

nored, forbidden 

to make even a

walk-on appear

ance on a show 

we mistakenly

believed was

earned and

was ours.

mmmxix

Text Message No. 7
(searching for life in a distant galaxy)

what good is talking if you don’t
want to talk. be more forthright
with yourself.  be specific about
how alone you truly want to be.  

i can’t even write that without
a pang.  come on.  objectively:
who wants to be alone?  oh.  

right.  okay.  duh.  sorry.

which is better, losing faith 

in humanity, or believing 

nobody will ever get you? 

get what?  (somebody.) 

at least before you start 

making noises about the 

importance of engage

ment, it might be smart

to start small.  earn a

few words.  build a

little box in which 

to place all of the

baloney. take a

few baby steps 

before you decide 

whether walking is 

even the way you 

want to go.  are you 

with me?  if so, hit me back.

mmmxviii

Text Message No. 5

(Parallel Universes)

mmmxvii

Text Message No. 4

(Novelty Poetry)

mmmxvi

Text Message No. 3

(Some Important Questions About God And The Cinema)

mmmxv

Text Message No. 2

(It's incongruous.)

mmmxiv

Text Message No. 1

mmmxiii

The Freudian Slip

has potential

as a title in that

it might be followed

by a saucy story or

a couple of shots

of poignant

double entendre,

something that

gives the reader

a little slap, which

is followed shortly

by a rather stinging

smack, a feeling of

déjà vu that quickly

and hauntingly is re

vealed to be a gaping

crack on the surface

of the very soul of

the reader, something

that might force her

to contort into

the shape of the

caricature in

The Scream,

never able

to break free

from that 

shape, 

which

ever

after

emerges

regularly

from and

then quickly

disappears

back into the

shadows at the

edge of town, a

creepy reminder

of the ugliness that

can almost always

be found when we

dig too deeply.

And at the end of

this performance,

there might appear

an Oedipal character,

recognized by each

member of the aud-

ience as Oneself,

who appears

on a muddy set

and is dark

as murk but

for something

it has in its

tight grip;

something

spotlit by

strobe light,

that quickly

and arrhythmic-

ally gouges deep,

deep, deeper into

its body, its flesh,

its hull, until the

theater is flooded

with a throbbing

red fog.

It might

just as easily

serve as an

alert to whom-

ever might pass

to watch out

for clichés, which

might be buried

so deeply within

a big monster

of a cliché 

that it might

be a bit disturbing

when the actual

cliché farm is

arrived upon

at some un-

godly hour 

like 3 in the

morning or

the moment 

dusk arrives

at the butt end 

of a less than

memorable

weekend.  It is

a pretty ordinary

title that has about

an ocean-sized 

amount of po

tential. From 

here, things 

can go upwards 

to pretty much

anywhere.  I

wonder where

you thought you

might be going 

(if you thought

you might be

going anywhere).

Or if you even

gave it a thought.

Was there any

trepidation?  I

wonder how you

feel about me now?

mmmxii

Girl with the Typewriter Dies


attempting to help her old friend

Nathan brand his new mail order

business.  Fruit, he says, to which

he continues: lime, watermelon,

strawberry.  Socko! she

thinks, having always

loved him.  Red sun,

purple pickle, he says,

and he isn’t just waxing

poetic.  As the evening

progresses at each word he

enunciates, she lets out a

lollipop – just a tiny mumbled

vapor – and then in a sort of

backwards fashion, as if via

the tops of both sets of

knuckles at the ends of

her short, cartoon-like

arms, she tries

to plug her

mouth with

an imaginary

one.

mmmxi

The Jigsaw Puzzle

That process of putting the puzzle of
you (that’s me) together in front of
the someone (whom we shall name I
Wanna), at least as much as that control

is yours (that’s mine)….  It’s laughable
to me that I’m even an ounce of a mystery.
And I really know that I’m not (and never

was) brooding.  But I can find myself (and
have on too often an occasion) jaw-droppingly
amazed at how large and self-important parts
of me remain so unfiguroutable to the folks

I’d really think I’d get got by.  That’d be those
closest, especially those with whom I set out
(with sheer intentionality) to make .. the most

close.  I generally chalk this off to just one
of those things I’ve lived with ever since
refusing to be read like a book.  And who really
wants (to be) Ducky when Ren McCormack’s

in town?!  When it comes to such puzzles, I
suppose it might be true that the secret to being
a you (or a me) might lie somewhere a whole

lot closer to the being than the showing.
This thought, and ones of me peering out

my bedroom window over and over
and over, age six through seventeen,

often accompany each other—another
unnecessary mystery, perhaps, but
what’s a big backyard tree if not a

puzzle of some sort?  A puzzle
with maybe just too many branches,
I am thinking.  But still .. memories.
Having my eyes stretch almost all the

way through the slats of the blinds
when (and how often!) up pops
a little rainstorm that’s soon enough

spitting sticks (little branches of elm)
all over the backyard (which is pretty big).
But what’s even to be made of the concept
of big when later that same week, say: your

self-same eyes (through the very same slats)
are all agog with MOVEMENT.  There’s

a hailstorm, to say the least.  Wherein,

along with the pelted alarms going off all
over town – there almost surely must have been
living somewhere within it (at the very least)
a tornado (or two?).  Now that kid knows well

that the elm’s got sticks and that the elm’s got,
well, a super extra long and thick arm of yet
another elm tree .. that halfway up itself at a

ninety degree angle there’s a long .. let’s call it a 

bough .. from which a weathered rope drips

almost all the way down to a small but 

familiar dirt patch (that’s churning up

a loaf of mud on this occasion), that has

dangling from it, knotted to it, an old 

Uniroyal tractor tire.  Yes, that same tire

about which everyone who’s even
actually visited has always asked “How exactly
did that get up there?” (“Wull, I dunno .. Dad?”) .. ..
And you’ve swung from that tire for ages.  And 

what happens when – no, don’t look out there now! – 

just past where the rope is tight-strung, somewhere
just about where the tree’s HEART (the

WHOLE tree’s heart) must surely beat, or so 

you’ve always figured, what happens if it just 

SNAPS!?  And then, with a little whirl of the Pinto’s
stationwagon windshield wipers, say .. after who knows

what all destruction takes place, mostly
just in the form of time passing,
here you are, sitting upon the trunk of that great elm.

It’s not really even sittable anymore.
It’s just sort of there, without anything else but
the mud and a few of the old beagle’s bones.
This is, needless to say, well after you’ve picked

which anti-hero you’ll still be trailing desperately (more 

than likely long after you’ve given up on the idea of
any hero at all, really).  Gone are the days filled

with thoughts about miracles performed by Dad.
Gone are the days laden with weather-related fears,
or of being beholden to anything that might snap a
tree in two for any other reason but to create a product

(Like a piece of that puzzle?  That’s another thought
that doesn’t cross your mind, of course.)
Today, there’s just the mud, the blankest

canvas of the past, a bit of chicken that’s
been rubberized by a long-gone dog
and a backyard that if given notice at all just ..
seems considerably smaller.  And if one were to

approach this figure of you, one might
almost hear a sort of tinkle-tink
emanating from somewhere just behind

his big round eyes and think here’s a guy 

who’s just about out-maneuvered lanky

into something a bit more
stump-like.  And, yeah,

that would be, in retrospect
an unrepentant me, more drool
than brood, with a head clean empty

but for a percussive, metallic-arrhythmic
garble coming from a group of history’s I Wannas

all clinking and clanging and whining to be
found and fully figured out.

mmmx

Splat!

mmmix

The Hill With No Fire

The hill of blooms

is a disaster, having

so recently lost its

battle with the hill

of dreams, and this

just on the heels of

enduring the scourge

of the desiccated riv-

ulets (the arcane sky

rolls its big orange

eyes, squeezing out

the slightest bit of

steam).  The rest

of us, all of God’s

creatures, no 

longer able to

slink onto the

set stealthily

enough to go 

relatively un-

noticed by a 

dwindling future

of gawking, needling

fans (and what an audience!) —

the prop mavens, having already

scoured our obscure, imploding

planet readying for this week’s

episode of How to Grow Hungry

and Die w/o Ever Taking a Breath,

each lie grasping for a state of semi-

consciousness just under the crust

of the knoll at the bottom of the

other side of this once wondrous

plateau, in a room called the

Cavern of Blue Dreams —

mmmviii

Meanwhile massive trees have whispered thumbs...
                                        —Kevin Killian

We all want to
get out. Some
of us, on a
mountain,
want to go
higher.

mmmvii

a conversation

i just don’t

understand

how i can

explain

things

so well

these

days.

     i agree.

     you’re

     right.

     what a

     true nerd.

you have

to admit

that it’s

a pretty

airtight

argument.

     great.

     wonderful.

     btw, i really

     need some

     sleep.

i’m just so

unused to 

being able

to so elo-

quently and

succinctly

do that!

     no need to

     be sorry.

what is

happening

to me lately?

     perhaps

     you’ve de-

     ciphered

     rocket

     science.

it just makes

me so angry

that i could

not do this

years ago!

     you always

     resort to 

     demeaning

     the brains,

     somehow.

so what you’re

saying is that

i am right.

     . . .

right?

     sorry, but

     that was

     very funny.

...

     good

     night.

goodnight.

mmmvi

i keep thinking 

of what i was 

going to name

this.  i suppose

it was too good

to remember.  i

keep wanting to

rhyme remember

with ember, but

now it’s a bla-

zing flame.  i

worked tooth

and nail on

all my to do’s

only to see

the whole 

thing go up

in smoke.  my

work, the list,

my tooth, my

nail and what-

ever it was 

that i was 

going to 

name

this.

mmmv

not the best one

it is a routine,

this sinking

toward sleep,

shuffling to-

ward the door-

way to dream-

land.....

drifting...

...drift-

ing...

it has

been

the 

most

diffi-

cult

day

ever en-

countered.

and then

that des-

perate

scream

again.

there

are 

words.

you 

grab hold

and are

jerked

out of

the 

drift

and into

the light

(you’ve 

left the 

light 

on); 

the

screams?

then.  it 

comes to 

you.  fol-

lowed by a

second jolt

(only moments

ago you were

at the doorway

to dreams), the

voice,

the voice...

is mine?

and there

were words.

the words.

the only 

ones re-

called, but

swiftly, were

chilli relleño.

yes,

today

was 

like

that.

in

ex

plic

able.

mmmiv

telegraph from

the rock and

the hard place

this 

just

in,

stop.

(no,

really,

please

stop.)

call

off

the

dogs,

get

rid

of the

goons,

dis-

patch

the 

guard,

and 

send

in the

clowns.

mmmiii

making cents

he’s an oddball

but no baddie,

really.  he makes

his lists to do and

never orders

anything to go.

the seafarers

know him for

looking at

blue whales

a bit askance

and for em-

barrassingly

long periods

of time.  i

saw him

myself only

once.  he was

reading an

atlas that 

never even

shrugged.

all of this

comes to be.

and the itchy

desire to make

it more and more

absurd as i go along

captures me and

turns me into the 

boy who cried 

wolf!  i try to 

slap on an

adroit con-

clusion as

if it were

the taut

and ripe

behind

of a

dearest

comrade,

but then

i realize

this cannot

be right. it

just wouldn’t

make sense to

make sense

at all.  so i

aim for

anarchy,

my worst

nightmare.

i grow more

and more com-

fortable with this

madness and the

dark shadows 

wrap them-

selves back,

and inward, 

curling at

and into my

skin, which

remains in-

tact, gives

no proof

of evil’s

appearance, 

because evil

simply

doesn’t

exist.  

which,

in the 

end,

makes

perfect

sense.

mmmii

a map of the world

this mesh black
business chair
is friendship.
the t-shirt i
have halfway
pulled up is
soul.  the
breakfast
i had yes-
terday (but
not this morn-
ing) is love.
the mustard-
colored plush
(and i mean
amazingly
soft!) sham
that fits
over my
entire bro-
ken bed
is my
country,
or my
travels
from
country
to country
in an effort
to understand
and be comfort-
ed by diversity
and the oddities,
the disparities
that exist from
culture to culture.
the orange juice,
dr. pepper and
gallon of milk
that i fell asleep
and woke up
(just now) next
to is my family.
the keys to
where i live,
which i finally
found, are the
many paradoxes
of home.  that
half-eaten bag
of potato chips
is my body and
the chips inside
are who i am
in relation to
the spiritual
and whether
spirit exists.
there are cans
of vegetables
and soup,
which are the
many people
in my life.
a broken
peanut
butter
cookie
next to
the sink
is hope
and the
two slices
of bread
left in
the blue-
checkered
wrapper
over there
are optimism.
i type this
on a laptop
(values) which
sits on a pillow
(heat) atop my
crossed legs
(lineage).

mmmi

The King of Heartbreak City

Mister Burg
Clerk.  Missus

Because She
Simply Cannot

Read.  Mister
Approximately

Association and
his colleague,

the hardhearted
and mysterious

Mr. Every After-
noon.  Professor

Colleague, who
often learns to

live (approx-
imately here).

Missus Dis-
associate, at

tea, with Mr.
Every After-

noon, most
evenings.  At

just about
half past 1700,

shortly be-
fore eating,

Mister High
Above the

Pacific thinks
about eating.

He thinks of
each and every

restaurant in
Heartbreak

City, a cozy
flat, lush

jut of land
that spreads

in every
direction

from Mister
Annexed and

Mister Inc-
orporated’s

architecturally
au curaunt

castle,
which

sits high
above the

Pacific
Ocean at

cliff’s edge
(with ocean

view) of this
lush, flat

jut of
heartbroken

but gorgeous
land.  Mister

Actuality
is not even

a citizen
of the

annexed
and inc-

orporated
city of

discombob-
ulated heart-

break.  Bob
the Inter-

national
Treaty’s

back itches.
It drives him

bonkers.  The
host, Mister

Sommelier,
turns to Mister

Downturned
and Missus

Long Faces.
Mister Lobster,

who was married
by The Reverend

Year of Our Lord,
in the Year of Our

Lord Nineteen
Hundred and

Sixty-seven,
sits at the

cliff’s edge
alongside Mr.

Smug and Mrs.
Corner of

Mouth.  It is
not even a city.

Too teeny-tiny.
But it is lush

and it is
beautiful

and it is theirs.
At the celebration,

the anniversary
of the annexation,

Mister and Missus
Swift and Bloodless

graciously
thank the

hired help.
Doctor Iconic

shuffles home,
which is directly

across the street
from the stadium.

From high atop
the lighthouse

here in lovely
Heartbreak City,

the tenders of
bar, Ambassador

Unbeknownst
and Mayor

Disc Jockey,
are arrested.

mmm

fragment

naturally i dream
when the sun beats
like a pelt against
my window screen


______________
__________ hence
i am not octagonal
(but i am nocturnal)


living two floors
above the courtyard
of desire shoves
its puny fist into


_____________
the garden hose

mmcmxcix

The Container

My head is more than
full .. is more than full
of the most awkward
fruits. The ones from

lands too far away to
even imagine when
these gem-colored
fruits have come

such a distance
just to lodge
themselves
inside of a

skull that
mathem-
atically
cannot

even con-
fine such
a single
misshaped

eccentricity,
even if it were
otherwise a dry
and empty shell,

housed within a
container that,
long after I
am no longer

one with its
physicality,
will appear
perhaps right

here, as if a
moth-eaten
rag of a mask
that would

not cover
but a much
tinier head
than the

one it does
now, drops
like a man
in a suit

from the
top floor
of a sky-
scraper,

in dizzy,
slow-mo-
tion ex-
haustion,

until its
puffed
chin
sound-

lessly
stops
in the
middle

of my
chest,
jarring
what’s

inside
my head
such that
an uncomf-

ortable cur-
rent gives
my spine
a hyper-

spastic
jumble
that
climbs

like a
rolling
quake
up my

back
but
just
to

edu-
cate
my skull
full of awk-

ward fruit
about con-
finement and
incarceration;

of min-
imal
rights
and

slavery.
And they
(my skull;
its con-

tents)
in turn
force up-
on me the

keenest
most fer-
ocious
percep-

tion, an un-
derstand-
ing of the
universe

and its
collect-
ive mig-
raine.

All this
tran-
spires
here ..

in my
solitary
home ..
which,

appro-
priately
enough,
is about

the size
of a
common
coffin.

mmcmxcviii

Fireball (a codespondence)

you’re wearing sainthood so well!

     and you’re lookin’ pretty smooth
     yourself.

but i don’t feel silky.  like, at all.

     you mean like a marshmallow?

hey. that’s a peanut butter cup to you,
mister.

     well aren’t you the persnickety
     whippersnapper all of a sudden.

that is correct, sir.

     no worries, then.

there never are any, sir.

     like a thicc marshmallow smoothie
     that no matter how hard you suck
     you can’t even get a taste for like
     30 minutes.

that’s right.  you’re no dummy.

     but ... my marshmallow has
     the memory of a goldfish.

i guess that’s relatable.

     let’s be real, though.  you’re
     absolutely right.  30 minutes
     is just not enough.

you …

     it needs to be unsuckable
     for at least an hour and a half.

you are so totally …

     i am just an icon smoothie!

you’re so s&m!

     whoopsie!  but i was singing.

it’s not exactly.... hmp.  i bet you
own an actual leather whip that’s
twice as tall as you!

     at present, i am not so sure.

kapow!

     snap!

but that’s not really the point,
is it?

     splash dunk!

sizzle-izzle!

     ka-chonk!

why don’t we take this whoopsie
kapow sizzle into the…

     anyway, are we finished now?

but we’re on fire!

     i may never have been in on
     the joke, anyway.  in fact,
     maybe …

aw come on!  that doesn’t mean
that we need to be unsuckable
for an hour and a half!

     maybe …

or what am i not getting?

     maybe the joke’s always been
     on me.

well.

     i mean …

i still love jaden’s new song, though.

     sigh.  but i can only think of willow.

excuse me?  i’m still having a funny attack
over here.

     maybe there wasn’t a joke after all.

well aren’t you just a hot slice of scruff ...

     stuck in a smoothie generation, no less.

who thinks he’s the butt of every joke.

     don’t i know it!

and there are a lot of joke butts out there.

     let’s be real.
     in reality …

in reality, we are all just stuck inside of an
excruciatingly long, tedious novel about
the one who gets the spotlight …

     vs. the one who doesn’t.
     you’re ever the
     broken record, bub.

you know, sometimes you really get me.

     uh huh.

didn’t you suggest a …

     kapow!

uh huh.

     now you’re talking.  i mean.
     well.  you always talk.

uh huh.

     but that will always be my favorite
     hit!  who’s got the handcuffs?!

what, it’s the apocalypse already?

     not sure.  but i definitely
     know where you can get a
     pair of ’em.

and i’m sure it’s a basement bargain,
to boot!


[rimshot. darkness. apocalypse.]

mmcmxcvii

Dodo Bird Rhapsody

I did it
in a minute.

hashtag:
still here;

still jo-
king; qu-

irkyalone;
1980’s;

blonds vs.
brunets;

quaran-
teeny.

mmcmxcvi

Bold Stroke

I have always said
that Mister Green-
jeans has a late
lunch with the
Stepford Twins,
paints the times
with a rather
large brush.
I never knew
that such
broad
general-
izations
had Rocky
elope with
Bullwinkle
to (Viva!)
Las Vegas,
opened the
long-clogged
infrastructure
of vessels that
at some dim
point in mem-
ory made like
a traffic jam
in which for
a decade I
breathe and
the blood
doesn’t get
to my brain;
floodgates
that some-
how man-
age to say
yes to no-
stalgia
again
and
again.

mmcmxcv

Domo Arigato Doctor Demento

Today, I am thinking
That it just might be
The bomb diggity
To get a frontal lobotomy.