mmmclxxx

Chapter 17: I was just wondering if
                    you’ve had the opportunity

                    to look over my proposal.

I have so much news for you,
but I just don’t know where to
begin.  It’s never a good sign
when my goal is to do some-

thing (sometimes just anything) – 

to accomplish a thing – and yet 

my approach is that of contrition 

or confession, yet as far as I can 

recollect, there is not anything in 

particular that I’ve done wrong. 

How ridiculous to feel guilt for

simply coming to you with what

I believe is a worthwhile proposition!  

Even if mere suggestion.  An idea that 

I think will provide us each with many 

benefits.  For example, if executed with 

fervor it would potentially relieve a lot of 

unnecessary tension, here presently, in 

the air about us.  Also, it would surely

provide us with a little bit of that 

something that we both ought to

find useful.  Furthermore, it would,

at the very least, be educational,

would it not?  I mean, of course,

these are things to keep in 

mind, if you find the

time to flip through it,

to examine its contents and

the nature of the proposal.

And lastly, by gosh, it’d be an 

adventure. I mean, wouldn’t it?

Well, what I meant to say is,

just you wait.  (For the life

of me, if I only knew why

I was even standing here!) 

And, just to hear that word,

adventure, and, well I don’t

know about you, but even

to say the word and, with-

out fail, there’s a, a bubble,

yes, a bubble that opens 

down in my gut, somewhere

just above my belly button, 

or so it feels; it expands
to about the size of
a fist and just rises,
clean through my lungs,
my stomach and my 

heart – it really is an

altogether pleasant

sensation, I have to

say – and that 

bubble just rises,

all the way up  

my neck, where, 

kind of like an 

Alka-Seltzer when 

it hits water in the

glass, it divides into
a million tiny bubbles,
some of which make
their way all the

way up to just

underneath

the bump on the

top of my head.

I can literally 

feel the fizz
right there

(Am I knocking

the top of my

head with my

fist?).  So,

as I was
saying,
yeah,
I have
a lot to tell you.
I always do.  And
so, there’s no time
to dilly-dally.  There’s

never enough time for

anything, much less

to squander, to just

pilfer it away, in utter

isolation, you know?.  

I do hope you’ll take it 

all into  consideration, that 

we can perhaps work out a 

time to further discuss this, 

to get into the nitty-gritty,

that you’ll consider my 

proclamation, uh, my 

proposition, that you’ll

call me as soon as you get up in the
morning and have a moment to go
over the, to discuss the, to really
put our money where our mouths
are. I very much look forward

to it.  To our, to us 

giving this the old,

well, if you could.

Call me tomorrow.

First thing.  Looking

forward to it. Bon soir.

mmmclxxix

Chapter 16:  All I Have to Say

“And yet you laughed when I said
that I just wanted to let you know
that the topic you brought up . . .

the subject you seem so eager 

to . . . well . . . I mean, as you 

well know . . .your reaction,

when I said as clearly and 

gently as I could possibly

muster – and you know this

because haven’t we been
through this on occasions

too numerous to . . .?   It’s 

as if . . . .  Look.  When I said, 

as I have said before, that this is 

a bit of a touchy subject for me, 

why? – or how? – could you just

 . . . why do you have to press 

forward every single time? 

Rather than just?  You 

know? . . . I am just at a

loss.  How’m I supposed to 

. . . I don’t even know 

what I’m saying.  What

I’m saying is this.  How 

are we . . . how are you 

and I supposed to even 

. . . to even . . . work . . . ?

Alright, alright.  I have
said this to you before.
And again before that. 

But look.  Here’s the
deal.  And this is going
to be my last word on 

the subject, I mean 

it!”  And so Doug, 

as Doug does, said

what he believed
to be the truth,

and what he be-

lieved to be the

finality of what 

he had to say 

on the subject.

And then he 

went about 

his day, and

the days after 

that, sort of

repeating it,

again and again
and again and again,

until what he was saying
evolved.  He tried, then,
to write it down, these

evolved words, as he be-

gan, at least subconsciously

to recognize them as an

off-kilter echo, as it 

began to dawn on him

that he was saying some-

thing a bit different than

what he had said the time

before, that what he said now

was, in fact, significantly

different than what he had

said only a few weeks past.

So he would keep writing it 

all down, often a bit thunder-

struck at the difference.  And he

told and retold this in both public
and private, with finality?  He felt 

that he had to get it right, this

mess of words that he kept

speaking, saying.  “I must bite 

the bullet,” he would say to him-

self.  “I must put my money 

where is mouth is,” as the

saying goes.  And that he did.

mmmclxxviii

Chapter 15:  A Private Message

     Some films are like you’re on a drug or something. . . .
     Kodachrome had more poetry in it, a softness, an elegance.
                                                —Steve McCurry

I spent quite the evening with
Edward last night (intimations 

of evening lasting through 

the night are, rest assured, 

more wishful thinking 

than reality).  [The 

screen fades to a 

pale gray as the 

next scene opens

to a bright and

busy café strewn

with overly fluffy
sofas, chairs and

bean bags.  After 

a few stark moments 

of hubbub in black and 

white, the entire establish-

ment is suddenly awash in 

the colors and style of 

Kodachrome.]

Narrator:  If, for a moment, we were to presently flashforward  

               to the beginning of our story, we’d see a young man 

               walking onto a blank, letter-sized page, the city of  

               his calling, heretofore clean of both his life and 

               his pen.  And soon you will know that to watch 

               our young hero explore every square inch of that

               bright rectangular sheet is to see his city come to

               life on the page before you.              

Doug:      [walking up to the back of a couch that looks as if it will 

               spring to life at any moment, standing almost over a wisp 

               of a fellow slumped and nestled deeply into the couch] Well, 

               pop that popcorn, you haven’t given up on me yet! [“Doug”??]

Edward:   [the wisp sunk miraculously deep into the couch] Gemini

               crickets, Doug, where the hell have you been?

Douglas’ pupils are soaking in delight at the barrage of color that
always greets him at the Café Clement.  He plops in front of Edward,
mirroring his smirk.

     Come back for tomorrow’s extra special episode of Clusterfuffle.

     When you’ll discover what happens when Café Clement closes

     for renovations, what darkness befalls a cast caught unawares

     when the script calls for new names for each character and the

     eradication of all chapter titles, see what happens when the 

     narrator meets his long lost brother, Doug. And, most thrilling 

     of all, Edward sends a private message for the audience.  What

     could he possibly have to say to you?

     This has been. . . .

mmmclxxvii

Chapter 14: No Peas

Scratch rabbit hand
after let’s do kissy-
face.  Embarrassed
or hot under the collar
or shy or having in my
head already built a
cogent graph of our
future and there’s
too many red-lines.
Must wall it up. Must
build a bunker for this
happy mess of a

no can do. So I 

take off on a 

tangent. Bottom

line: eradicate!

And you thought 

I’d no rhyme 

nor reason.
Things happen 

in a still life.

It’s a stunner 

to me, too, but

the freaky fact is
who refused to

pop a Darwin

like the best

of us?  As 

stupid as

stupid is, at

least I can safely

say that I’m no
hypochondriac
anymore, glass

half full and all.

Once I started 

understanding 

panic there were

fewer and fewer

attacks, until I
wasn’t a hippo
anymore.  “So

what’s your secret?”

Things unravel.  “Like,

Everything?!”  “Yep.” 

Back in the war, 

they’d rev up 

to around triple

what they were,
say, in my 30’s.
And then there was
the crash; walking
barefoot to school,
half a foot of snow
on the ground.  It
still has me jabbing
at my head. “What’s
genetics, Gene?”
“A shot in the dark,

Mark!” Then, “Shoot
that poison arrow,”
I choke, half-
cous-cous. . . .

Miles and miles

later, elevated and 

fizzy, I flash for-

ward to the 

flashback,
where groove
is always in
the art. Mos’

def! every

heavy heaves,

With cert! comes

the echo, all

the bodies in

formation w/

their fists up

high and

pumpin’

all smart.

mmmclxxvi

Chapter 13: Gemini Crickets

Lying beneath a magnificent oak tree in the middle of a
semi-deserted city on a lovely afternoon squinting up,
up, up at the sun, I am of two minds.  Do I just lie here?
Or do I stand up, shake off the detritus of oak and park
and city (and dogs both leashed and unleashed)?  Or

do I venture forth as I originally intended for my 

date with Edward, late as I am, given up on me 

as he likely has by now?  This is the current fork 

that I have happened upon in this, my balmy ver-

sion of a snowy evening of. . . . I check instantly 

to determine if Frost, too, was a Gemini.  Nope,

Aries.  In this ,,, OTHER ,,, this separate, sunken 

universe, I am, as always, multi-tasking.  I type a 

line or two, then shift to the other side of desk, 

tap a few taps onto a separate keyboard than the 

one which I am presently using, flip through photos

I have taken throughout my life, or have been taken

of me – these happen to be from a couple of years 

ago – in an effort to catalog the entirety of my 

thus-far existence, adding locations, adjusting 

an incorrect date or two, making a few notes
on the line that reads “Add a description,” 

just in case, , ,of posterity?  Or mostly it

is self-discovery: attempting a gross

understanding.  So as to live with peace

and purpose.  And joy.  And contentment. 

After I’ve done this with, say, a dozen 

electronic slices of my past, I spin the

seat of my chair slightly further to my 

right so as to face the age-worn 

printer/scanner next to me, adjust the

diary of my grandmother, my mother’s

mother, in such a way that I can then
come back to my laptop, the one upon
which I am once again or still or

currently typing, where I then com-

bine press [Alt][tab] and then and

without interruption lift my pinkie 

while continuing to hold down the 

[Alt] key with my weakest finger, 

tap lightly with my pinkie onto

the [tab] key, which prompts 

the interface to my hand-me-

down Epson printer to the 

top of my laptop’s screen so

that I may then click on the 

button labelled SCAN, which 

will add one more slice to the 

tens of thousands of electronic 

slices of me that I will later 

spend hour upon hour of 

scrutinizing, tagging, de-

scribing, remembering and,

then, with the addition of this
new image of handwritten text 

that has moved from my grand-

mother’s diary into my laptop, 

it goes up into one of several

so-called clouds, somewhere

else now genetically a part

of what will become me, even if
it is not of my actual memory – 

but a glimpse of that which is me
and of my history which holds

significance in what brought me

here – after doing all of this, 

coming back to the point of

origin at which I was when

I first began this litany (to-

day’s edition, anyway), I

will then scrutinize, along with
the rest of the expanding and
already bloated catalog that
is and will become, inevitably,
the guy sitting here tapping

these lines into existence, in
what is hopefully not simply
just an onanistic effort to 

reconcile that which is 

electronic and tangible 

with that which is not: 

with he who is still 

really doing this, just 

as curious and wanting
(wanting!) more than 

the sum of ever, but

who is, nevertheless,

cumulatively and

only, of course, as 

ever, yours truly,

mmmclxxv

Chapter 12: Tick-Tock-Flop (Plop!)

An abstruse but delightful
sense of fashion?  Please do
kindly forgive the ease with
which I get sidetracked.   Act-
ually, I suppose that your for-
giveness is unnecessary and
my request is premature.   It
is simply that I am already
beginning to understand the
romance a writer develops
with the world of their fic-
tion. . . .   Already, Edward
is venturing away from real-
ity and into the fantastical
universe I myself create.   I
open my eyes.  I’m in a new
world, I’ve decided.  Already.
Edward.  Is venturing away
from reality and into the fan-
tastic, frenetic fanatical uni-
verse verse verse verse a
verse a verse a verse averse
adverse universe I can create.

mmmclxxiv

Chapter 11: Symposium of Edward

I took Edward’s text and I twisted it
into a pretzel before I baked and ate it.

“Are you always in the business of
swallowing words?”  But I feign

ignorance, which is not such a
difficult thing for me to do.  Ed-

ward.  Edward is a brazenly thin
young man with an abstruse but

delightful sense of fashion; he
has perpetually mussed wispy

blond hair (cropped close, yet
always flying in all directions),

piercing blue eyes and an air
of omnipresence.  I have per-

sonally (and privately) nick-
named him God.  I’m walk-

ing between the train stop
and my apartment while

thinking about Edward
(Edward Edward Edward)

and trying not to bump
into a tree.  And this

I accomplish before
falling beneath one –

a magnificent oak –
in slow motion I

just crumple like
some nobody that’s

just been shot to
death in a movie.

Lying under the
oak like I’m dead,

but first twisting
around (the grass

smelling so very 

good) to squint

straight up
through the

half-shade
half-sun.

mmmclxxiii

Chapter 10: Sidetracked

By now, I have remembered that I have an appointment
with Edward, and have decided that sitting in the grass
underneath this beautiful oak is not getting me there,
long chain of clusters of action verbs notwithstanding.
I wiggle my toes a bit more in the grass and replace
socks and sneakers onto my feet.  I hop up and begin
the rest of my trek to the train stop.  And, realizing
how exceedingly late that I am, I resign to the fact
that my dear friend Edward will by now have
given up on me.  Taking note of the ease with
which I get sidetracked, I’m beginning to
understand the romance that writers
develop with their various fictions.
Already Edward is venturing away
from reality and drifting into
the fantastical universe
that I have created.

mmmclxxii

Chapter 9: Isosceles, Isolation, Idolatry . . .

I’m already five months in this fine city and I have yet to make one
new acquaintance with anyone with whom I’ve been able to share
rapport of any truly meaningful kind.  I say this as if it is the problem
of those around me, rather than, as I am well aware, a problem that
is mine alone.  And furthermore, I’m being downright silly thinking
(and relaying) that I am metaphorically trapped in some sort of iso-
lation chamber.  Especially since, while it is true I’ve basically stuck
to myself since my arrival, it just so happens that I now live in the
same city as my two best friends from college.  There’s Edward, to
whom I am off to see presently, and there’s Marty.  Two things
complicate this most pleasant fact.  One is that during our last
year in undergrad, Marty and Edward had seen fit to elevate
their acquaintance.  Quite a bit, actually.  For Marty, this had
been something momentary, a fleeting inclination toward what
was always, and certainly, headed toward a timely terminus. 

But for Edward it was monumental and enduring.  Only now

it was enduring without Marty.  And this brings me to the
second complication: Edward does not know that Marty
now resides in the same neighborhood that he and I do. . . .

mmmclxxi

Chapter 8: Sonnet

I have an appointment with my old friend
Edward.  I’m meeting him at a cozy rest-
aurant along the downtown harbor for
lunch.  I think non-sequiturs and para-

doxes the spices of life.  Also, ever since
I can recall, I’ve seemed unable to relay
anything to anyone succinctly.  There’s
always more to tell, and not enough time

to tell it.  That’s me.  So I have inter-
rupted my regularly scheduled pro-
gram (if you will), to tell you that
Edward is a brazenly thin young

man with an abstruse but del-
ightful sense of fashion. . . .

mmmclxx

Chapter 7: Spotlight on Me Dancing

     You know the world is ours.  We’re up there with the stars.
     You know the world is ours.  We can do anything.
                                                                           —Headband

I’m. . . .You’re not going to be believe this!!  You have to be here!!
When I close my eyes I get to decide where I am.  It’s so fantastic!
“What happens when you open them?”  (He’s always so goddam
literal.)  [It is going to be impossible for me to ever get this right.
But I can imagine myself trying for years.  Just to give you a
glimmer.]  It’s communal, baby!  That’s why.  [But if it’s so
fantastic and if I’m already here, why would I ever want share
any of it?!]  Right.  Oh-hell-yeah-this-is-to-be-continued . . . .
. . . . . . [Directly into his telephone ear], Uh, hey, hello,
Edward? [short pause, for effect]
Are you free tomorrow night?

mmmclxix

Chapter 6: Adjusting to Reality or Nothing Unusual Here

It’s one of those days when a thick coat of sweat appears before I’ve even stepped into my bedroom from the shower.  And as I walk out the door (It’s early morning!, I’m rejoicing), the full force of the heat overwhelms me.  I take a few steps backward, into the spuriously cool shelter of my apartment.  With determination, I make my second exit.  Grandly, into the heat.

My walk to the train is short, so I pace my thoughts accordingly, staring down at the drying grass in the park, occasionally popping my head up to ensure I’m not running into a tree.  I hear a train whoosh through, clanging a bit.  It’s the weekend, and I’ll have to wait a while for the next one.  But not too long.  More time to think.

mmmclxviii

Chapter 5: Bear With Me, I Will Get Through This Mess Somehow

Weeks pass.  Years, even.  The combination of anti-depressants and depressants, 

while initially titillating, almost always leads me to an interminably rough sleep, 

followed by a solid hangover replete with a nauseous giddiness.  If I can eliminate 

the guilt and dissuade the indifference from completely taking over my soul, it is on 

these days that I am most contemplative. And at my most creative.

mmmclxvii

Chapter 4: Hurdy Gurdy Herky-Jerky

Music has always been more than just a little bit significant to me.  I took lessons

at piano for twelve years, starting in the second grade.  After two years, my

parents, sensing that the piano and I were quite the pair, took me to a more

selective instructor in the city.  By city, I don’t mean a real city, I mean Fort

Smith. Arkansas.  I grew up in Charleston, about 20 miles or so east of Ft. Smith.

After a horrifying audition of sorts, my new piano instructor told my parents that

she’d take me on as a student, but I would have to learn from the beginning

because I’d been playing by ear.  She was my piano teacher for over eight years.

By the time I graduated from high school, my ambitions (which I kept to myself,

mostly) were definitely in the performing arts area, but rather than a musician, I

wanted to be an actor.  Yet when I began college I joined the choir and began

voice lessons and continued piano lessons.  The degree I spent half of my time in

college pursuing was, however, a bachelor of arts in chemistry.  Theater would

come later, even though it also would just be a phase (like playing the piano, quite

a long one, and entirely purposeful, as far as I have ever been concerned; but still

just a phase).  By the time I was 24, I had two degrees in theatre (a bachelor and

a master of arts).   

It would be better said, I think, that performance has been quite significant to 

me.  Beginning at a young age (my role from age 3 to 5 was that of an ADULT; 

I rarely ate at the kids’ table on holidays, and my persistence at this role was, 

I am most certain, exhausting to the adults in my family, most of whom would 

play along enough that I never thought otherwise).  I have had the delight of

performing in many ways: as puppeteer; as a trumpeter on the football field,

in an orchestra and in a jazz band; as piano accompanist for a second grade

performance of The Nutcracker and for Brahms’ amazing Liebeslieder Waltzes, a

four hands on one piano extravaganza, on tour with my college choir; I’ve had

roles in dozens of theatrical productions; I’ve directed choir at church; sung and

played piano at weddings and funerals; the list goes on and on.  

It wasn’t until I was in my 40’s that I began to realize that I suffer (and

continue to) from social anxiety.  Some fairly severe panic attacks (and several

therapists and physicians), quite the rage for me that decade, helped me come 

to this realization.  Even by 40, though, I had been a decade almost completely

withdrawn from being a performance artist of any kind.  In my early 30’s, I

delved into poetry, started a magazine, and continue writing it to this day (I am

doing so here, as a matter of fact).  It was around then that I also began thinking 

of myself as primarily an artist, though I knew to keep my day job, of course.

Of all of the types of performers I have been, playing the piano has by far brought

me the most fear and panic (when playing at church, for example, the grand

piano would be quite visibly shaking along with my shuddering arms as I would

play).

mmmclxvi

Chapter 3: Pre-Post

And so it is decided?  The earth is shaking and I’m having a Prozac dream. There’s a pervasive percussive clanging and banging going on and I’m in it, can not get out of it.   Somehow I become vaguely aware of what is happening, and that I know the routine.  So I try to remember that I am in bed, that this is just another of what I call my night terror dreams.  These usually involve a mix of immediate family members, former college buddies, ex-boyfriends, me either flying or falling, a pervading sense of death and, once I become aware enough, the belief that if I do not wake myself up from this it will absolutely mean my demise.   I’m deathly afraid of flying, but it sure beats falling.  In this one I’m falling.  Everything in me is calling out for anything in the atmosphere that might either reduce my anxiety (why do we never say increase our calm?) and awaken me.   Oddly, on this occasion, just like every similar one before it, once I finally somehow find a center, some peace, I awaken.  I do always manage to forget while in the midst of the terror that I do not need a stimulant to snap out of it; I need a sedative.  As always, before I am fully aware of my existence, of reality, the ghost-faces of my terror-dream, and the soaring confinement of mourning in which I am soaring or falling at a pace that is painfully slow  .  .  .  finally, a fizzy phosphorescent light seeps through the cracks of my eyelids, and I have cognizance (of a sort).   

My muted alarm clock is upside down on the carpet next to my bed. Swimming out of a miasma of sleep and dream, I inevitably have lift-off.  This is the important stuff. This is ‘me.’  Weeks pass.  Years, even.

mmmclxv

Chapter 2

And so it was decided.  I was moving to the coast.  Surely this would 

end the cliff-hanger that my life had become. [several weeks pass,

during which in my head I am more of an idiot than ever.]  The 

blank page is pretty damned formidable.  Apologies, I am already 

getting ahead of myself. Sticking to strict chronology has always 

eluded me.   “And who doesn’t?” you might posit, and I’d be happy 

to concede to your generalization.  Let’s presume there will be more 

than enough time to question the relative significance of my tale. 

A hook, though.  I suppose that if this is to be engaging in any 

way, I’ll need one.  And a good one at that.  I mustn’t just chug 

along here in my little box, all unawares.  There must be en-

gagement.  Engagement, for me, is religion. Anyway, please 

bear with me as this venue, this method, is new to me. It 

always seems to be, in any case.  Swimming out of a miasma 

of sleep and dream (where I rarely disappoint) into . . .

reality?   This is most assuredly not a dream!  It is . . . .

Well, ignoring all consequences, all chronology, all con-

vention.  Please do so kindly bear with me as I begin 

(even if not quite at the beginning). . . .

mmmclxiv

and that is

the end of

chapter one.

mmmclxiii

Page 11

Wait. This is my 1st real bout with monogamy. And it’s been four years.
Waiter? Water? Where is everyone? Peering out into the audience, I see the
guy in the brown cord jacket that keeps following me from bar to bar / okay,
he’s definitely not following me – but. Wouldn’t follow him, either. It’s not
physical. Is it? Some conclusions are best not drawn. Curtain!!

mmmclxii

Page 10

Does my wish want to be with him? You know what I’m wishin’. He’s lost
the sexy red jacket and this, I thought, might be a nice way to rediscover
empathy. I have only one guy (there’s already too many males). Anyway,
what’s it like to be a bartender? A 30 Year Reverse? Why do I come here?
Is it just the hopped up Cosmos? Logic says perhaps; I do pay full price
for them here. It’s certainly not for the bartender, though. God, I hope
it’s not for the bartender. . . . C B S. I mean, generally, it’s just a fuckin’
sports bar, so this is surely just BS. Right? Speaking of holy shit, that man
has my beard and is wearing my pants! Later, as I’m having a cosmopolitan
at the Midnight Sun, which is the worst (both the bar and the cosmopolitan).
Now I’m drinking a Calistoga from Jerry at Badlands after talking to the
yahoo. And I’ve just been informed I never knew him. Of all the people
to look me in the eye and tell me I just do not get it! As usual, he’d been
reading cinderblock-sized books about war. Oh, and Joe called as I was
initially walking from The Bar to Badlands (the concept: getting a little wild;
and I know, I know. . . .). I just wanted to do something. I knew he was
gonna wisecrack about me constantly asking for a 25th hour. What he says
is, “I’d so love a 25th hour!” Now it’s me wondering who I am, pacing
around like a stick of dynamite mumbling Whose flesh? Whose bones?
Which is exactly what wishes get me.

mmmclxi

Page 9

Holidays.   What does that yahoo think of me?  If only the difference were clear 

between when he is gloving or blubbing.  He proves occasionally he means 

business, sometimes by surprising me.   I hate surprises.  How about a movie? 

Okay.  The Hours.  CONNECTION.  Yes, all told, who could ever know what 

we have!  I [DON’T] will be the first to admit, and initially this was part of the 

thrill of it all, but – WHOA – I love tattoos!  Don’t erase them.  Who just wrote a 

LONG e-mail just about the connections?  Juicy!  I meant the movie.  I was so 

engrossed I didn’t even hold his hand ’til nearly halfway thru.  I AM NOT an I 

love you cloud hovering in the darkness at all hours.  Nor your typical Anything. 

AM NOT! And you seem to appreciate that at the same time you are an enigma 

(look!).  My heart is like a river?   Well.  It’s certainly not frozen anymore.   

But what time it is!

mmmclx

Page 8

Straw.  You have the sense of an artist and a scarecrow.  A favorite song comes to mind so
I write it down.  Oh, and there’s Joaquin; more of his confessions. . .e.g, I keesed you like
cardboard.  He has such a tiny adorable (is there a better word?) face.  “Hello did anyone tell

you you wass sooo handsome?” – no, you’ve never – duh.   But I have.  I’m wearing new Gap
cargo pants (on sale) striped underwear (black and gray – with sparkles – yes!) and a “TUNE
OUT” t-shirt, a military green jacket (very light), cellphone, black socks (stippled soles), an
old pair of New Balance shoes (gray – like my beard!).  The 49ers are playing somebody
and I LIKE drinking in the Castro on game night (The Bar, mostly empty) while writing.
More like writhing.  It’s 2:43pm – the music has slowed – the sashimi was good but
it could have been better.

mmmclix

Page 7

Take off your shirt. That moment (you are getting closer) I feel it in my middle THAT
MOMENT just before the 1st kiss and you are so forthright that moment with all of these
butterflies (I fantasize, no?). That moment. That moment with all these butterflies you feel it in
the music he is sitting next to you for hours and you do not touch and then you are standing up –
what’s the excuse? – you have to pick up a Uni-ball blue. Yes, that was the perfect moment.
That was the perfect song. And I am humming it almost silently now and this is actually a short
story because nothing ever happens. Yes, let’s make this a short story. (Does it have to be THIS
short?). Look how sexy I am blowing my nose. What is ‘artistic sensibility’?

mmmclviii

Page 6

Disco.  What I miss.  Sure, I made too much of happy and single.   It’s chemistry, a spiritual
awakening, you feel it TOO.  I can tell that you DO.  Oh my those kisses I can give you and
that you can give me.  Am I a goddam sensual gossip or what?  Full of words like tRite.  I

think I’m gonna go see Jerry.  Drunk on a Sunday afternoon.  [Walking toward Door #2] 

The music here is “it’s funny how all of a sudden you just start doing it” – (moving differently)

this must be spoken while wearing a sexy red jacket.  Trumpets are blown (backdrop) –
there’s a Backdrop of Trumpets.  Like the Sugar Lips instrument.  A backdrop of trumpets – 

this is lovely – this first Sip....  Here, where the only precious lisps are just sugar lips. 

Whence bearded gray – (and don’t forget the secret spell: spickle terra trix carkey) . . . 

Today is Luc’s birthday and already I can feel it in my head.

mmmclvii

Page 5

Yellowing, mild at the center, I can tell.  Shut your bloody trap!  This is a groove it’s not the
Army, and neither of us is Rock Star!  For this is my tummy (check it out, Diana Ross’ alphabet)
which is one huge long page of X’s.  Exes.  Excess.  Access.  Ok, I had to blow my nose because
I could say nothing of substance (I haven’t yet finished my first cool beverage).  I am just sitting
on the back porch watching the Band Building burn.  It used to be the Home Ec Building.  Bldg.
[a few hours later:] Okay, back to bed.  I have relayed nothing of substance (if I go back to the
top & read all the way thru wd there even be a THREAD (why caps?)??  Now is when everyone
has brunch.  It is 2:17am on a Sunday – oh the Oz (& poor Maurice) – he’s gone back to from
whence he came.  He had a stoplight in his living room – too many MALES on his hung art.

mmmclvi

Page 4

Football.  Times past!  Blue light (eyes closed, thinkin’ – what does this
mean? – am I exploring?).  Or just stream...like the Stream of Blah Blah
Blah I float on it just a little.  Darren, it is obvious, likes me – and I WANT.
DRAMA.  “Watchu want or watcha need?”  I can hear him now; he always
exudes the obvious.  Maybe this isn’t upchuck.  Maybe it’s actually art.
So let’s figure this shit out.  CULL (this year a top ten word): 1) Cull (free
flow in no particular order; 2) ?; 3); ? 4); ?; etc.  Maybe I should just draw
blanks.  Today is Sunday.  And let’s just say I shoulda known I’d be
drawin’ B L A N K S !  (love has a secret) blank (ain’t that the reason
I found you?) blank.  I figger I’m not the 1st person to kill the blues
on a Sunday afternoon – a day that was meant for the blues – like
any other day, I suppose.  The deal is done: love songs are now
Sunday afternoon.  It will just have to be.  Now that everything
is so perfectly thought out, I get myself together and say “Hey!
I put these sticky pieces of paper all up on my love parts.  So all’s
you have to do is just write it.”  Just right it, I’m hopin’ (heh heh).
ReMIND me to type this ALL UP.  (“Cut!”) That’s a great commercial.

mmmclv

Page 3

To be funky.  Frozen (no punctuation).  Let’s tell one story on this page (the
theme: screwing myself).  Always a fish out of water (w/ a case of the feels).
Take S. Deadly Motherpucker Highway to Carmel-by-the-Sea.  Skip the Bay
of Monterey and careen south onto Pecker.  Take it all the way to the Pacific.
Lunch with Mister Eastwood then hunker down until we’ve blown a few (pp.).
Make damned sure they’ve come out plural.  Pop down to the Cape.  Don’t drive
through any hurricanes unless you have time for a few once you arrive.  Do
not sleep through any weather!  When in Texas, etc.  Yesterday, the Pomera
Nians (quite the pair; how they do always warm my middle).  Reminder to
remind him (who needs a good remindin’) to remember that no one needs
to blow it (meaning my mind, mostly; we’ll be funky enough, bra).  Ugh,
also, note to barf, Lord of the Cockring’s Confession.  I’ll be the one
most desperate to forget.  Oh, how I wd much rather have watched
the sun rise with all of ’im, but what a boat of bongos and bananas this is
turning out to be thanks to the jerk that he is (as it is already...put these
in the box and jumble ’em).  Seriously, I mean, Shake ’em up hard!!!  It’s
just that I always wanted to skip the addiction and roll right into some
sort of elevated trance (in an elevator again, no doubt!) (U’s & O’s
from the disco balls I’m swimming in.).  “Yes you do.”  “Can you try?”
Ya swimmin’ little fishies!