mmmccxiii

The Studs’ Defeat: A Still Life
(or The Seven Duds from Silver City: A Parable)

“Would you please kindly
excuse me for just a

moment?  I need to pull
a cashew out of my shorts.”

He had always called all of the
shots.  And so each pair of eyes

went zipping all about the
room at what appeared to be

an erratic, irrational and
seemingly impossible speed

before a full and unwavering
stop to perform a short-term

sort of a half glare square on
in the direction of Dozier, as he

went about taking every second
of the time it might likely take an

elegant, seven-foot-tall octogen-
arian who casts a shadow identical

to the shape of the silhouette of
a slender-as-an-overripe shoot of

bamboo would no doubt take to rise
and to then begin to amble, from any

table, be it dining or office or, as was
the case here this morning, a game of

cards, and in the general direction of an
exit, right after he’d just resoundingly

beaten (in truth, it was a full-on rout)
the most sly and most sinister set of

treacherous villains ever to be ass-
embled into a conglomeration for a

maximum-stakes, all-night game
of poker.  Once Doze had ever-so-

slowly slipped past Herb and Rat-
cliffe (each stood so that Doze

fit neatly between their knees and
and shins and the card table as he

idled sideways through, and once
free, limped at a pace that seemed

to run through eternity down the
short hall to the back exit, the

screen door of which was just out of
sight from the men that were gathered.

There was not a move made all the
while, that is until after the door, which

had let out a slow scrawling squeak
as it apparently opened, had at first

gone silent for a few long seconds,
and then, with a snare-sounding

rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat in reverse,
slammed shut, when all of the men

let out a long, collective and slightly
voiced and even melodic exhalation.

Each head, after that, relaxed to a
bend that could be described

as bobble-forward – or in half-
prayer, but with all of their arms

a-dangle, gone limp and just
hanging, each man’s left and

right arms intersected each’s
respective thigh; and also, with

what from above appeared as
with stunning precision, each arm

made, in combination with thigh,
a perfect ninety degree angle), who,

like the rest, were still seated in
what appeared to be a pigskin

fight’s huddle at the table holding
aloft all of the elbows (as well as,

in two cases, the faces) and a
discordant, messy scatter of cards

(There were clubs, there were spades,
there were diamonds and hearts;

there were kings, there were queens,
there were jacks, there were aces.

And alone on the in front of the space
just exited there was, facing upwards

as if looking each of the poor men, if
not in their eyes then at least at their

faces). And that smattering of left
over runes from the last hand of

the long game, as if only to remind
each worthless man that remained

in that dank basement of their defeat
in a horribly unfortunate game just

ended – one that had begun at dusk
the night previous all the way to

and then well past morning’s first
light which by now had begun to seep

directly downward, into the tepid
basement, and onto those motley parts

of the sweaty and oil-spotted skin
that one could see, that were

exposed to the elements; the
parcels of skin on the backs of

the necks of despondent men
who’d each been so duly defeated

glowed, and if one were to look down
at the view from just above the table

the ring of necks might easily be
imagined a beautiful, radiating crown

of thorns or, just perhaps if one’s power
of sway or depth of imagination were

more than unusually convincing,
might be that of a sun-yellow

highlighted halo, belonging assuredly
to some unknown creature or another

that might live in the ground at a
level however deep but directly

below the once ballyhooed but now
neatly bedeviled circle of men who’d

only just all been put in their rightly
low-downed, respective places by

a man in obvious and stark contrast,
lauded within these humble lines,

the intent of which is of course to
assist in setting the mood for what

is hoped to be a long celebration,
of high-minded, goodly, Silver City

denizen, our dear fellow Dozier. But
also to serve to remind us all that

good does indeed inevitably win in the
end, and that that we must always at least

believe. It is toward this ideal that with
steady composure lead men like Dozier

too ardently fell.  Or else reformed earth’s
worst inhabitants, those who are rotten, 

nasty, revolting, so that those whose hearts,
whose souls and whose minds were, in

all generality, good, might swiftly, or, at
the very least eventually clobber

those who are not. In summary, we
might also put in this way: may we

as the good and most honorable people
be always goodheartedly triumphant,

and in being so, may we leave enough
room here on this fine earth, not only to

bury the onslaught of rotten we clobber,
but also ensure that what’s left, what

goodness* remains, is filled with, embodies,
in fact, the maximum levels of peace,

the highest rates of joy and the
most whopping gargantuan un-

burstable balloons of giddy and
lovey-dovey contentment. Om.

*It need not be said (and yet here it is nonetheless) the list of
  specific characteristics which make up our goodness, which is to
  say that which is in most ways good consists and of how just exactly
  to seek out and distinguish these various extant goodnesses, these
  are things that can only be officially ascertained by those (relatively few
  of us, of course) who are capable of intercepting, or in any other ways
  of finding, receiving and securely capturing, by way of what we
  call divine intervention; or by those (even fewer, I might sadly add)
  who hold the sacred gift of speaking The Tongue, of those who can
  and do communicate (directly) with undead (ghosts), with visions and
  a variety of erstwhile apparitions, which is to say only to those with such
  inherent knowledge and command over the ethereal beings, who can
  outwit them and with whom they can negotiate, interpret and oversee
  implementation of enduring treatises of peace and liberation; and finally
  there are those (maybe one, or, perhaps, two of us, tops, in each given era) 
  we call The Learnèd. It is their lives who have been called forth to repurpose,

  to sacrifice themselves toward the greatest of all of services to human-  
  kind. These of the highest order are steeped completely, so as to become
  the masters in these the most divine studies, which are of the realms of
  numbers, of stars and of all things astrologic. 

      

mmmccxii

Can’t Think Straight

I don’t know about you.
I know little enough of
myself, except of the child
in me at this very moment;
children, not my thing, but I
so wanna throw a big snotty
tantrum right now that I just
wanna I wanna I wanna, and
then leave whatever mess I
happen to make to the sweet
souls (such as, let me say and
be done with it, you) who’ll
so graciously coddle me,
flawed me, thankful me,
spiteful me, entitled me,
precious me. Thank you
for being so curious, turn
me into something better,
feed me, don’t take any-
thing I say at its absolute
word, and above all, get
serious! Unaware as you
probably are that I am.
Pick me up, you’re the
only one who knows
where I live, but
don’t tell, it’s a
secret only you will
ever know. I have
to go now. I know
it’s best. I really
don’t wanna.
But I’m gonna.
I know my way
out, as of course
you well know.
There are plenty
of sure things in
life, like why I’m
almost always
here, or when
I’m pulling your
leg, turning all
hot, what I
would say
whispering
into your ear,
but do not,
and why.
That your
ear makes me
wonder about
ears like I never
do, but used to.
I can only hope
that by now
you can see
how meaning-
less I have
become.
Don’t do as
I say, nor do
as I do. I
need, I think,
to fall asleep,
say good night,
offer my con-
dolences. Pay
me no heed,
I don’t mean
to offend, but
there’s only
one thing
that I need
(says the
heart on my
sleeve), and
I daresay I
must with
all circum-
spect believe
that on this
one thing we
would have
to agree,
don’t you
think?

mmmccxi

What’s Your Hurry?

I wake up anxious and spring
quickly from my mattress to
upright, my feet barely on the
floor.  I’m nervous, I am pacing
the tiny path that fits within
the confines of the little box
I call my home.  Back and
forth I go at this for a few
minutes, wondering about
coffee only long enough to 

send me into even more of 

a panic.  There is no time
for me to put on a pot, I
don’t even think, as I’m
immediately all down
on my laptop keyboard
checking messages.

There are none, of course,
and that, for whatever
reason, has me feeling at
least an inkling of calm,
as if I have the time to
poke around for just a
little bit, check the head-
lines and social media.

Nothing seems amiss, every-
thing is perfectly normal, no
instant message, nothing at all,
in fact, direct, nothing even
slightly personal.  The only
thing that catches my eye is 

that someone, for whom I 

used to have no small amount 

of respect and even admiration

is going about making people
furious.  And that might include
me, but my default is to ignore
such blips; in fact it’s second
nature: I deflect before such
nonsense comes even close to
grabbing distance of a neuron.
It’s the only rational thing to do,
of course. And besides, today
I’m in a hurry. Except –

I pause a moment, wonder what’s
the rush, really. I don’t have a
plane to catch, an interview, a
medical appointment, I certainly
don’t have a brunch date or any
thing the slightest bit romantic or
social or domestic on the horizon –
and try as I might (and I do) I can-
not begin to pinpoint what it is that
I’m in such a magnificent rush to do,
can’t figure out whatever it is that I
know I must, within the confines of
a calendar’s parameter, accomplish.

I check my little electronic book
of outstanding appointments,
even though I know already
that it’s April, it’s a Thursday,
and I’ve got bupkis ’til at least
September. And yet,

before you know it, here I am,
I’ve shot back up, and I am
pacing the miniature path that
fits between my bookshelf and
my sink and my little chest-of-
drawers atop which sits my
compact microwave oven,
like a teeny-tiny canyon
that leads from my desk
(that sits just beneath
the window that overlooks
a courtyard and of which it
could rightly be described the
very template of minimalism)

to the door out which is a
hallway, which will lead, in

turn, down some stairs (or 

down a cranky elevator), and

through a lobby and out a 
door into a somewhat metro-
politan environ.  But rather than
escape, I pace as if an animal
fresh from the savannah upon
awakening and finding itself the
victim of captivity: back and
forth, and back, and forth,
and back, until I’m anxiously
trying to remember, once
again, the task I know I
absolutely must complete
by deadline.  It’s due today
at some impending hyper-
critical time, and I’m most
insanely certain of it.

mmmccx

an anachronizm*

in which I present to you a poem

[the introduction of which you should have already received

approximately 24 hours hence]

the poem is constructed of actual text messages sent early

on the morning of april 13, 2021 which, at the time of this

writing, is yesterday. many apologies for my attempts to

create a sense of urgency or suspense or to highlight the

significance of what was to arrive and now has, here,

today. this poem, which I am posting late on the evening

of april 14, 2021, despite my enticements of last evening,

is the latest of three thousand two hundred and ten such

pieces which are part of a whole which I have been

building for almost two decades now, and for almost

nearly as long have been regularly posting here, via

blog, which is what I consider a wonderfully appropriate

means by which to present them. the one unique aspect

of this particular poem is that the text that follows is given

in the manner in which the exchange took place yesterday

and, and this is what makes it stand out, is placed in literal

time, noted in the way we normally do (see the dates that

appear above). whether you have just arrived for the first

time or come and go with any regularity at all, thank you

very much for being here.

[of course, by now, i am pretty much nothing but a big red herring.]

feeling an emptiness of a sort, and having a desire to fill that void,

but without really wondering about it much at first, I text the follow-

ing to Marvin: “i wonder if you’ve read any of what i’ve been writing

of late.”

i have been thinking it has become a burden so many years of not having any real reaction and real time engagement of any kind, how important that has always been to me, or in more practical terms, how it was something that had always been there for me, i mean, i was pretty aggressive in making it happen year upon year upon year, but now just how there is this somewhat troubling cloud stirring in me for a long time and this morning it just dawned on me -- duh -- of course. this goes alongside a lot of this disengagement black hole that has been such a huge thing in my life since a bit before i was evicted. but i am only this morning even thinking about the performance and engagement side of art that totally disappeared and has

been gone now for over a half dozen years. it’s nice to suddenly get hit by this realization. of course it creates an echo chamber and makes everything seem too damned (gonna use an ‘academic’ metaphor here) onanistic.

so, now that that is clear, it ought to be a priority of mine to fix that problem. and in knowing it has been as severe as i now realize it has been, and that i miss that very much (and having it be so easy to think of this as some worthwhile process, too, so there's that), it ought to be something i should immediately go about remedying. also, it should be a piece of cake to do so, right? now that i am struck by the obvious on such a subject as this. the doctor is in! hesitancy or unease on this subject: it’s a lot of ego. but ‘art’ for me has always been social, reciprocal and, given that i was once upon a time (and so it’s still a solid part of me) a theater guy, really, it’s for better or worse impossible to dismiss the necessity of an audience.

but there’s a part of all of this that’s, well: the thing not to forget is that clearly i have one. an audience, i mean. not a throng, but a few, gradual, intermittent, but out there, if such things as internet links and website rankings and traffic statistics are, if that which those that tout such things flash in virtual neon as they swim around in the atmosphere, is in any way near accurate. (no wonder looking at those graphs and lists have boosted my aching eking spirit).

a few minutes after sending that out, I receive this simple text back: “I wonder how you’re going to go about it.” my response: well, u know (or maybe not?) for most of my years as a writer (meaning since i was 29 or 30, which is when poetry took over as my - and i hate this word in this use, but it is the most appropriate given its general use in such circumstances - passion), i have regularly hosted ‘salons’ (another word for which, in this context, i am kind of turned off by) or poetry sharing soirees, poem-swaps, which were always a big deal to me. since quite a while before i was displaced that just hasn’t happened - for mostly obvious reasons. but i think i need to have as a prioritized goal rejiggering and resuming them in some way. and, rather than spend so much time bitching about having no local friends (while there still remain several individuals with whom I spent a lot of time believing that’s what they were, which has since been such a motivation suck when it comes to rebuilding such a group, but o digress – because i’m talking now about poets, and i never get close enough to other poets for such troubles to occur. . . ). . . .

anyway, for starters i think i shall use my texts on this subject to you, that question, and my response, pretty much verbatim, as my anachronizm for today. that would be a start, i think. and a way to sort of force myself to think more on this, which seems like what i should surely do.

*now that I have had my own place again for these 26 months. . .
   (alternative title)

mmmccix

an anachronizm*

in which I present to you a poem

[and, simultaneously, an introduction to another poem]

which is just one of many that exists in what is now a considerably 

lengthy accumulation of poems that are attempts, at heart, intended, 

among an array of additional stuff to skew time in such a way, utilizing 

many means, some of them original with regard to intent, others 

serendipitous, in a sort of mixed-bag way that brings into or out of 

focus various aspects of a life lived. I am thinking now that this is not 

unlike how a prism, when utilized, may, for one who observes, bring 

light itself into ‘focus,’ create color, emphasize.

but to limit is not only to reduce, it also limits. to exclude.

so as to focus.

maybe to release that which binds time and [ space ]
might expose.  and it does.  I am not just an observer, 

my intent is not simply to observe, and

as a poet, or journalist, or a social anthropologist, to report.

This is not simply an awkward means of coaxing
an ego ever towards hubris. (or, boy, do I ever

hope that this is not only what I do; am doing)

Yeah, but in the act of doing so (conscientiously?) . . .

(always this stultifying need to explain myself!)

But can I be scientist enough that I also remove my 

self from the results (I am

suggesting a rather lofty strip tease here, and
while I have dressed – and begun to undress?)....

This notion as an enticing one, as well as what
seems an ironic one to me, but I will tell you
that it isn’t what I am going for here.

(If I throw myself in all of my various incarnations.

If, as a purported sentient being, I pin a carnation
to my lapel;

if all I do is fret and strut and ham it up, waving my
arms all about, as if to only say

“Look at me!! Look at me!!!” . . . .

Well, and why not?)

(but, what would that di but enteratain...)

All I am trying to say you is that I’ve got a poem for
you. And I do most civilly offer it to you, for your 
consideration. That might be enough.  But it’s not 

the point at all. My point is, well, I shall make my 

point tomorrow. 

This must be frustrating. A poem. Trying to ex-
plain it all to you. Going about making any point
at all. It does get a bit ridiculous. But there
is an impulse in me that is contrary to that (line

of thought?). Or. How’s this: if you come back
tomorrow, I will present to you that for which 

you are, at this very moment, taking the time 

to read (and for this, dear friend, I

am enormously grateful), which is mere introduction.

With that, I say good night and good day. And I
hope to meet you here (or anywhere, if it comes

right down to it) tomorrow.

*I am a poet and not a scientist
  (an alternative title)

mmmccviii

The Plot Thickens

there aren’t enough olives
(“olive you, olive me not,
olive you. . .”). there’s
nowhere to turn right.
there’s hardly any spo-
ken word; are you even
in here? if so, why aren’t
there any floodlamps to
obliterate the miniature
curtains of flimsy film
that hang behind our
eyeballs and map out
our billowy fragility
of memory. where’s
that raspberry now
that I’ve come prep-
ared, now that I get
how best to take it.
I’d be a surfer too if
I looked like that. the
doors open. my eyes
might as well. death
to the dearth of the
cute catchwords that
wobble in and out of
my ears. and they
always are going so
quickly to nowhere.
they, like me (do they
like me? i often wonder.
that’d be so entirely
unlike science.), always
alight upon a metropolis
(and metropolises are
pretty much always lit).
once there was a scowling
kid in search of another (so
long as it was scowl-free).
a kid bumps into other kids.
it happens a lot. it’s so easy.
kids are so cheesy, sometimes
irritable, horrid, mean little
people, easily excitable, and
they wear a lot of faces –
these are blanket statements;
broad strokes – but, so, it’s rare
to find one having a dull moment
(am I boring you?). as an adult,
I find a child’s scowl rather charm-
ing at sunset, which was, of course,
when we always used to watch the
children glide down the San Fran-
cisco hills, or else smoke up the
sidewalks doing the moonwalk
to and fro. where in the devil
is everyone, anyway? it’s gotten
so dark and there isn’t any
flame left in me. I’d brew a
pot of coffee to drink in the
dark if you were here. if
you were here, I’d almost
certainly have you over.
and look at this cream,
will you? my senses are
still as dull as ever, but
you were always sensible,
with preferences that’d
so wildly fluctuate be-
tween two poles the
difference of which
I could never discern.
only you could talk
me through the
subtle variants
that would in-
deed abound
on a long walk
from ivory to
taupe (and
back!).
but look
at me now,
chucking the
keys of the
grand piano
into the chute
(well aware it’s
normally for
laundry), which,
boy, did we ever
tinkle! how could
I help but think,
“Oh, shucks,
what ever
became of
my poor
dear Aubrey?”

mmmccvii

from Help Wanted: 88 Problems
        In Search Of A Pot To Stew In

It’s too early to be here before you all
runningaroundandwriting over my
latest dilemma. But this is what I
do. So. How shall I put this? Well,
this bit of nothing, the business of
which is not only completely out of
the blue (at least for you) and, I
might add, is embarrassing (and
not just in the slightest) - and in
sharing, reveals me pretty much
at over the range of okay and
right well into uncouth. I ought
not, perhaps (as my dad used to
say), be allowed to roam free
uncouth, to be allowed to roam
amongst (not into and out of, 

nor betwixt or between) proper
social circles of any brow, high
or low. However, with no real
precedent but that of whimsy,
and with what turns out to be an
ironic and ridiculously overarching
confidence, I’ll go ahead and now
say to you what’s on my mind,
what’s causing me such cold
sweats and consternation.
Simply put, in a manner of
speaking, “What isn’t hot
certainly isn’t getting any
hotter!” This, at least, is
how my dearest pa’d
always put it. Only there
would be so many times,
dozens upon dozens, when
he’d utter those words and
I’d be too much a dullard
to ever comprehend (and
I am certain he was never
as vague as I am now). I
stand as evidence here
on a street corner in
my neighborhood
on a rainy evening
(I might as well add
without an umbrella)
with an unpleasant
case of “Eureka!”
And as the accum-
ulated drizzle pours
like tiny rivulets
borne by my very
own teardrops,
that I perform
for you, , ,well
, , , in what I
should have
mentioned
earlier is an
exercise, that is,
a means by which
a limitation is (or
limitations are)
established so as
to pinpoint, or
to highlight, or
to express some-
thing (sometimes
just about anything)
of singularity for
– and this is the
ultimate hope –
a purpose (e.g.,
to specify a flaw
in character; [so
as to] rectify it)....

Shall we continue?
Or, better yet, I
believe we would
better be served
if I just shut up un
til after I’ve tough

ened my resolve at 

least a little bit, un

til I can properly
square my opt
imism, and only
then should I
get back to you,
let us say, to
morrow? – with
a solution in
search of a
problem,
rather than –
or better yet,
with a map, 

that leads, 

like that 

yellow brick 

road of yore

, , ,to , , , 

well, , , ,

Uh, from my home
to yours, this is me,
saying as I sign off
for yet another
evening, stay
tuned for tomorrow,
when I shall truly lay
bare that which is, um,
my house. Or, well, but
first, I must welcome my
pal, the exterminator, for
there sure needs to be a
whole lot of shoo fly, uh
(I hafta get the bugs out,
if you know what I mean,
urg!) . . . . . . . . . .

mmmccvi

I Am Back At It

(in which
I list the
ways to
find one
self any
where
but here)

this is a
partial
list of:

_ how not
   to find me
   at the x:

_ circum
   vention.

_ all the
   ways to
   say the
   things
   you can
   to ensure
   that you
   never
   bump in
   to me any
   where,
   period.

_ easy ways
   to make it
   impossible
   to locate
   yours truly...

_ avoi
   dance;

_ i dare u
   2 find me;

_ want my
   address?

_ who, him?
   I heard he
   died.

_ did you try
   google?

_ invisible
   individual
   (it’d be ill
   advised...),
   invincible.

_ incog
   nito,
   too!

_ before it gets
   too dark, please
   be so kind as to
   close the door
   behind you.

_ peek-a-boo!

_ absolute
   absolution
   absolves
   absolutely.
   (not!)

mmmccv

This Performance Has
Been Brought To You By:

If I did any-
thing em-
barrassing
don’t you
think I’d
be embar-
rassed by
now?

mmmcciv

La Danse Impossible

I wake up singing (!!)
“Chiquita Banana” –
I really love it when
I wake up singing.

I flip through my feed
and catch small flashes
of inspiration. They
come at me, of

course, from
all directions,
just like my im
possible room

mates. Here’s
two of them
now. They’re
brand new

and so, having
just arrived,
“Team,” I say,
“meet Chee Zee.”

Everyone rowdily
says hello to Chee.
“And this here is
Mr. C.H. Allen, Jr.,

but you can call
him Chuck.” No
one worries about
the joke but me. E

veryone gets a
long swimmingly.
I adjust my direct
ion, facing the

corner in hopes
of giving the
gang at least
the notion of

comfort, of
elbow room,
a luxury
here;

I’ve a lot of
impossibility
to fit inside
my tiny home.

The place is abuzz,
people are getting
along, the air has
a palpable sizzle of

expectancy you
can almost see,
a whistle just
enough off

register that if
you scrunched
your face just
so, you’d trick

your ears,
swearing
you hear it,
like a stove-

top kettle
the instant
before its
hiss. Without

using breath,
I keep singing.
Catching tunes
from I don’t know,

it’s freeflow radio.
The signals pulse
more from below so
the drifting melodies

interfere less
with the stuff
in my skull
(where it

feels like a
particularly
competitive
game of dodge

ball is underway,
or perhaps it’s
Olympic tether
ball!). Compart

mentalization
in this, my tiny
apartment filled
with me and all

of my impossible
roommates (I can
hear Silly-Willy chit
chatting now with

Chuck, who’s such
a flirt, though he’d
never own up to it.
And poor Chee, beet

red at the wall of El
vis, smitten already
by Siri. She does
that so unwittingly;

“That’s Siri S. Li,
and don’t you
forget it,” she’d
blurt, and then

pretend a blush.
But she’s not
shy in the
least). Now,

at ease enough
in my corner to
tune it all out,
I contemplate

what the day
has all ready
for me. “Are
you lonesome,

tonight,” I in
audibly sing,
incapable of
going a day

without
The King
(his face is
on the calendar

– 12 Months of
Elvis – on the
opposite wall;
I can feel him

looking down
on me). Then
after a bit, and
just as abrupt,

but softly,
so as not
to interrupt
the others,

“One
is the lone
liest number
that you’ll

ever do.”
And they
just keep
coming.

I could,
I know,
so easily
knock all

of this off
rhythm, blow
to bits this
composition.

I could make
a difficult go of
it all, turn the
day into dust

as if I had
just awoken
from a dream
wherein I was

someone
else, and
that this
pedestrian

pastiche
was never
meant to be;
that it is naught

of me.
. . . But
what do
I do . . . ?

I toughen
my mettle,
right what
ever dis

cord, and
focus[!!].
For what a
magnificent

thing it
is to
wake up
singing!

I think
that I
shall
dance

the entire
day through,

just me and

my crew, my

lovely set of im

possible friends.

And what an
adventure’s in

store for me,
as that’s pre
cisely what I
choose to do.

mmmcciii

A Few Thoughts on Passing

       is polyamory anticapitalist
             —Sophia Dahlin

I say make them
small; they don’t
need to be too
much.  These

meanderings.
I’m getting a
head of myself.
Stitched up in

a wannabe fury
try holding it all
in (makes more
of a fury than a

wannabe).  I tell
it to shut up.   “Get
ahold of yourself!”
I say to it.  The

goo, I guess.
“What would you
have me call it?”
Okay.  C’est vrai.

We have to do
this sidewalk
together so we
may as well

make it great
(again?).  Like
it ever was.  It
as in all of us.

I’m not a bad guy
but I (should I tell
him?) play one on
teevee.   Oui!  I

spent a lot of time
drooling about be-
ing slathered in
holy matrimony.

That was the other
guy.  We’re me now.
Isn’t that pretty
fantastic?  (“When

I saw him look-
ing our way, my
first thought was
‘lead by example.’”)

mmmccii

chase turns deadly

     if you feel yourself
     becoming stranger
     howdy stranger
            —Sophia Dahlin

in pursuit
of art, he
exposed
his heart,
and it
wasn’t
the least
bit pretty.

mmmcci

the pace at which

                                The tall earth lilts me
     trippily on prongs.
                                   —Sophia Dahlin

hello. i am currently
heading to the post
office so that i can
pay my rent this month
(a small reminder to myself:
it’s a money order, not a
cashier’s check, i think?),
on the monday after easter,
which, like all holidays this past
year, mean nothing, are of no
consequence, being not unlike
any regular day. i’ve gotten so
used to this one man show here
at the hotbox that days go by and
i haven’t even stepped out the door,
but now i’m out, out and performing
what surely must strike anyone taking
notice as a ridiculously lugubrious bit
of speed-walking, which has made for
what feels like a larger-than-organ-sized
tetrahedron of concentrated pain emanating
from the better half of my gut due, most ass-
uredly, to the general laziness and lack of any
exertion that twelve and a half months (give or
take a day or two) of virulent contagion-imposed
solitude, brought about thanks to no small amount
of fear (also virulent, thanks to said virulence) and
a moderate portion of general etiquette, which, in
such duration have combined to enable discipline
enough to have turned this erstwhile extravert into
an agoraphobe (a side effect so illogical that, despite
having caught the scourge, recovered from it and
being vaccinated for it, all in the span of the last
month and a half, it remains the ruler of this
particular domain!), , ,which all brings me
back to the lovely scene of me, wincing
with each step i take (thinking I’m
going at quite a clip and yet, am
surely just as slow as the
days are long), so that
in i shall walk, round
about 4:59pm,
so that i can
purchase
from the
u.s. postal
service a
piece of
paper
that
will
keep
me hanging
on for at least
one more month
in my cozy little
home sweet
home in
the hood.
which is
a nice re-
minder, act-
ually, that things
aren’t half bad.
they’re not even
bad at all, really.
so what if i wince
just a bit as i
hobble up the
stairs and slip
the check
into its slot,
then mosey
up just one
more flight
to my modest
little box to post
this silly note to
you, as if to say
hello, and how
are you, it’s been
quite a while, but
here i am. and
here i shall
(knock wood)
remain,
as ever,
yours

mmmcc

at the end of the day

     fairies are money
     —Sophia Dahlin

holy smokes,
did i ever
fritter away
the day!  i
mean, sure,
it’s sunday,
a day for
peace and
reflection,
but still,
at the end
of it all,
what has an
entire day of
lounging in
a vegetative
state done
for me,
when all
i get is an
impending
monday?
and what’s
worse: then
it arrives.
it’s here.
and it’s
just
glaring
at me.
all day.
on a
monday.

mmmcxcix

new beginnings in normalton

whitman and fede were playing their usual afternoon game of mah-jongg. “that movie last night,” fede had popped out of concentrating on the table, “that movie was damn spooky, it was all kindsa messed up!” “was it?” whitman seemed particularly intent on keeping his focus on the game. “yeah, it was just too real.”

without even a glance upward, whitman responded “people are crazy these days.” he then took a long drag from a cigarette that appeared to be just ash and, placing a bright orange tile onto the pile, added, “who’s to know where even to begin.”

jenny checked the panel and was astonished to see that it was 3:40pm. she tried to remember why she had left work so early. she had planned, assumed, really, that she’d be in for the long haul again tonight, as usual, probably clocking out around ten. with her head spinning in an attempt at understanding what she was doing, her pontiac had slowed to a crawl, and she instinctively flicked the blinker left and readied to make the turn onto maple drive; her small red-bricked house sat just a few meters beyond the cul-de-sac at which the short residential road came to an end.

when it finally dawned on her, jenny had been home only a few short minutes. at first she felt a few prickles of apprehension. before long, she began to feel right ready, awake and aware. things were definitely not normal here in normalton. “this would not be subtle, of course,” she thought, “and why should it be?!” the rows of tulips that ran adjacent to the walkway to her front door, to which every weekend since early february she had gotten down on knees to attend, smothering each plant with love and want, were distinctly ablaze. nothing else but the tulips were on fire. the afternoon sky was the color of a turnip and the sun, which could be seen with ease on its perch upon and beyond the purple sky, had sprouted long, garish petals, as if the sun itself were a bloom awaiting its blaze.

the purple sun that’s sprouted four long, billowing petals that glow neon green at north, south, east and west or noon, 3pm, 6pm, 9pm and midnight, is now, therefore, more recognizably a colorful “x” or a cross, appeared for some reason violently oversized for something as faraway as sky and sun and space. this new celestial sphincter, and by now this should come as no surprise, begins to bellow: a smoothly booming baritone voice, coming from what used to be the sun, with language most easily understood by all, speaks now, at great length, of diminishing returns. a sermon about investments that dry up and wither away is being delivered by this huge new celestial being to the people of normalton, to the people of earth.

several hours later, well into the night of diminished returns and the end of normalcy as it was once comfortably known, whitman arrives home, parks in the cul-de-sac at a precise 90 degree angle against maple drive, walks through the corridor of flaming tulips and into the front door of his home, where his wife jenny sits facing the living room window as if it were an oversized television. her jaw is frozen in a dropped position as she applies what appears to be lipstick or, perhaps, lip balm over the “o” that her lips make, the stick travels the entire circle of her mouth and then starts over again, her hand rotating in the air between the window and her open face.

“honey,” whitman says, walking toward his wife at an easy pace, “jen dear, you’ve got it on the wrong channel, you silly willy.” arriving where she is, he helps her up from the chair she has unfolded just to sit and watch the spectacle that has unfolded on the front lawn, above and beyond. tucking his shoulder underneath hers, he leads her toward the stairway. “no wonder you’re so confused, honey. you’re not even watching our show. let me get it right for you.”

and then he half-carries, half-leads her up the stairs, where they each then proceed to remove their respective day-wear, pull on their night-wear and, each, individually, from their respective side, slip underneath sheet and comforter onto the big bed, just as they have done most every night for many years. once each is packaged neatly atop the mattress and beneath the linens, their heads, the one belonging to whitman and, about a meter away, the one belonging to jenny, swivel a little until each is each propped just so, on a pillow apiece. after a couple or so minutes, with eyes beginning to flutter a bit, both heads begin to fill with the deadpan rhythms of ordinary dreams.

mmmcxcviii

catgut yr tung?

it was wurst
we imagined 

us such polar
opa! zits – a
stick of bear
in the mud of
the subaltern

basalt basalt

we – a pear
that made a
mouth pokes
out scissors
uh tuba bath
twitching a 

cistern isn’t 

inevitably 

evil

mmmcxcvii

your papers have not been validated

the claim was a matter of
fact was a matter of inference
about a fact about a facial tic

or perhaps it was a fiction
about a farcical fling the decor
hung from the ceiling was flung

from the rafters - it was only
the principal (who just happened
to also be super indented) had

meant (no pun intended, he’d
come to admit), no singular
offense he meant whole-

hearted and circumspect, to
outdo the big to do with all of
that hullaballoo. his unified

purpose was inadvertently
inverted and so what could
not be avoided, to jettison any

over-performers by chopping
in two their circumference
tossing one half to the

flotsam while stealthily
tossing the rest of what’s
left of ’em into the jetsam.

however, would that this
vertical world held any such
logic - rather - he’d revel in

this spectaculish last act. how’s
that for a finish that sums up
all of us? what begins with a

3rd-rate expletive arrives with a
bang, yet nary a word of explanation
- just the explosion that renders it

riven at the very beginning of
the expedition (hence, the whole
thing being cleverly called off).

mmmcxcvi

Chapter 27½: Entr’acte

Boom boom boom. A throbbing beat sliced with multicolored
laserbeams scissoring/sizzling the air around us. Ubiquitous
disco ball. And what seems like around a dozen too many
vodka tonics sloshing around inside of me. I’m on the virtual
diving board, poised like Greg Louganis over the dancefloor
ready to dive in. Boom boom boom. First Marty leans in to
me, then Edward, then everyone on the entire floor. Nothing,
no body, of course, is appropriately proportioned; to my left,
everyone has a face that’s three times larger than it should
or could even possibly be, while, to my right, a stampeding
horde of gigantic legs. All are bounding/bouncing toward me.
Every moving limb, every gigantic face, they are all coming
at me, they are all here for me. The world is mine. The
entire universe is waiting. For Dougless. To dive. In.
And so, with possibly near-perfect form, Doug leaps into
the air, his body flipping itself over and over and over until,
just at the right moment, it opens all the way up and lands
with agility on its own feet, exactly at the beat, so that his
body ever so smoothly starts bobbing and weaving into the
exact rhythm of what’s being played. The crowd goes wild,
placards rising up with glowing 10’s waving as far back as
he can see in the thronging tumult enveloping him. Marty
and Edward and, now, Doug, all happy, drunk and throb,
throb, throbbing.

mmmcxcv

Chapter 27: “But I’m still here!!”

(“... a very great friend of mine...”)
(“... our regular scheduled programs...”)
(“... the latest report from the people down there...”)
(“... a tiny little detail...”)
(“... I'd like to say hello to everybody...”)
               —Jeff Lynne (from “Here Is the News” by Electric Light Orchestra)

[in which the narrator goes
on strike, refuses to give the
characters any of their story . . . ]

mmmcxciv

Chapter 26: “Who’ll Look Me Up When I Am Gone?”

[Here’s a little scene that transpires
about a half of a century subsequent
to the previous scene; our location
is the bedroom of Mr. Dougless
Ridenhour.]

I can hear myself say it aloud
in the middle of an unusually
quiet night, as my eyes slam
open.  Confused, desperate,
I feel my eyes flutter uncon-
trollably, a sort of half-wince
reaction to the sound of my voice
and what it has just uttered be-
tween fits and starts of disturbed
slumber.  It is a dramatic night
indeed, as just as suddenly, I am
back down into semi-consciousness
and then further and further still,
so that I am, while sharply aware,
unable to even feel the mechanics
of the rasped rattlings that come
from mid-way down my throat,
incapable of hearing what surely
comes as a loud and breathy
wail: “But I am still here!!”

mmmcxciii

Chapter 25: Famous Guest Stars

     no cure for who I was but who I am.
        —Sophia Dahlin (from “I’m a Ninny”)

Back on Vulcan, everybody knew
exactly what they were doing.

Chronologically speaking, the
very act of existence is an

exercise in futility. Yesterday,
for example, I personally

ordered two new miniature
microwave ovens. Both of

them were to be red. Each
were scheduled to arrive last

night: one at 20:30, the
other at 22:45. If, at

7:00 this morning, I
wake up and find that

I still have a total of
one microwave oven,

and that it is not red
at all, but a dull shade

of charcoal, does this
mean that I am not yet

awake, but rather in the
middle of a recurring

dream in which I am
stuck near the end of

a hilarious episode of a
sitcom from the Golden

Era of television in which
my husband and I, the

stars of the show, are
at our dining room table

eating TV Dinners in black
and white with the nosy

neighbors? While Judy
Garland is giving birth

to Liza Minelli, Ralph
suddenly rises and,

right on cue, swaying
top-heavily over his

tiny metallic plate,
wipes a few unseen

smears off of his
doughy gray face

with a paisley
print napkin, then

walks determinedly
toward and then out

the door, never again
to return, leaving me

at the table, a fuzzy
blob wearing a frilly,

off-white blouse with
a long khaki skirt, our

nosy guests, and the
masses of unseen folks

who sit up at the edge
of their seats, all of the

sofas and recliners that
stand sturdy upon the

invariably carpeted, tiled
or wooden (oak, cherry,

maple, mahogany) floors
in every single home in

America, the sum of
which are, as seen from

the tens of thousands of
people (or at least those

with window-adjacent
seats over cloudless skies)

in jet planes that make
distant staticky sounds

high up above, cons-
tellations made up

of tiny, glowing dots
lit with every color of

the rainbow that litter
a landscape that begins

at one coast and ends
at another. Trapped

at the kitchen table,
I can almost see them,

all sitting there, each
peripherally cognizant

of the unlit applause sign,
awaiting its flash, their

mouths pursed and prone
for something hilarious

that is just about to happen,
their eyes all itching for

the grand arrival of
Technicolor to swath

their snowy screens.
Only then will they

all know exactly
what next to do.

mmmcxcii

Chapter 24: Mariah the Pariah and Superstitious Patsy

or, learning
the hard way,
thinks dougless,

whose first
poem, age
ten, was a

sonnet
entitled
“math” –

oh, what
he did
not know

at age ten.
although
even then

the geminian
twins would
split their

studies in
half (gem
got science

and math
and such;
while ini

“mini” took
anything
artsy, and

stretched
it out in
such ways

that an
attention-
starved

nuisance
would
get away

with –
creative
liberty,

one
might
eye-

rolling-
ly call
it. for

example,
not only
would he

recite
“the
pirate

don durk
of dowdee”
in front

of the
entire
class,

but he’d
dress the
part and

act it out,
throw in
an extra

“argh!”
or three
for good

measure.
whatever
the point

of all of
this I
may never

know, but
as you can
see, I’m

very
easily
distracted.

which
might
have

been my
point, come
to think

of it. but
how to,
so as not

to have
taken us
all round

the corner,
definitely
make it.

are we all
most assuredly
and hopelessly

lost?

mmmcxci

Chapter 23: We Now Pause for Station Identification

mmmcxc

Chapter 22:  Marty Signals for a Break at the Emergency Exit

Reality got you down? Café Clement closed for renovations? Arrive at your
favorite park to find the once magnificent oak under which you spent more
hours in reverie than you can possibly count has been razed and severed
and stacked as if for firewood, no matter the year-round temperate clime
and the general dearth of magnificent oaks or anything suches? Catch
yourself audibly muttering bad-head-fog-bad-head-fog in time to your every
step as you march to and from appointments (which are usually those of the
medical sort)? Wonder often about extinction (particularly that of humanity,
whether in a general, natural causes fashion or in a sudden Armageddon-ish
one)? Getting just a little too stir-crazy? Or lethargic? Having trouble
balancing or navigating or managing your general person? Can’t seem to
reach proper lift-off speed? Do you find yourself submerged? Any interest
at all in a possible emergence? Can you roll over? Do you have the
capacity to dial out? Are your air passages obstructed in any way? Can
you find your voice? Are you breathing? Do you have an emergency
contact or might we notify your next of kin?

mmmclxxxix

Chapter 21: Anxiety About Marty

“He’s found an apartment on the North Shore,” said Edward. “By himself.”
Pause. “Doug, he called me last night. He wants to meet with us. You and
me. He says he has something very important to tell us . . . or show us . . .
I don't know . . . or both, maybe?”

Another long pause as Edward peers deeply into the ginger ale Serge has just

placed upon the table. Refusing to allow any of our non-conversation to soak long
enough to unsettle or provoke (nothing comes between me and my affected
indifference!), I bemusedly watch the arc of fizz revel under Edward’s nose.

Edward has a tiny, pointed nose, with four freckles spattered randomly along
the bridge. I imagine the freckles, in unison, screaming for company. for
another freckle or a mole or the crease of a pair of shades or even bifocals;
anything to compensate for the loneliness of such an unfulfilled feature as
Edward’s nose (which I, of course, find quite perfect – what is with me
today?). As if to reply to the freckles’ cry for help, a particularly animated
globule of ginger ale breaks free from the sensible arc above Edward’s tall,
thin glass and lands smack among the tiny brown punctuation marks. I
silently share the freckles’ ovation of joy.

“What should I do? I told him we’d meet him at Spot’s tomorrow at six.”
And so the appointment had been made. A reunion. How pretty! And I’m
not the least bit ready.

“Edward, don’t. Call him up with an excuse – we’re both too busy this
week.”

“I told him–”

"Ahhh, here comes brunch . . . .” And, indeed, brunch had arrived.

mmmclxxxiii

Chapter 20: Convergence

(…in which, thinks Doug, the narrator, the primary character and the author become one and
contemplate cliché, friendship and dramatic structure).

Character, character, character. Edward the omnipresent, Marty the unseen, Serge (he’s the
waiter; haven’t gotten to him quite yet) and, of course, me. Ah, and perhaps we could
accommodate our fine city. It has plenty of character, does it not? City on the sea, city under
the blue sky, warm city, ideal CITY, the very prototype. . . .

Doug contemplates these characters as he stares deep into the blue of the sky, his nape,
elbows and ankles pressing against the dampish sand. Tasting the salt in the air, he can hear
the swooshing and shooshing of the waves caressing the sand around him. His toes are
intermittently gulped by the swell of the sea. He’s thinking about friendship.

MartyEdwardDoug. What was the connection that is now gone? Why, no matter how he tries,
is it so impossible to resurrect?

While he contemplates the ephemerality of life’s connections, he is by no means sad.
Simultaneously, he’s thinking about the pleasure of isolation, of getting lost in his present
idyllic environ. And I’m not trying to weigh this pleasure against the comfort of having solid
friends with whom I can share most everything. And I’m not trying to weigh this pleasure
against the (foreign) idea of being solidly encased in some ideal happy “relationship.” I’m not
comparing unequal clichés. He enjoys this position for an hour or two, wary of going bask to
trying to mend something that is beginning to seem all but lost. Doug, after all, strongly prefers
pleasure and happiness to the alternatives.

mmmclxxxii

Chapter 19: Impervious Interruptus

Sure, we were inseparable in college. But then Marty and
Edward had seen fit to elevate their acquaintance a bit.

The consequence was a rift among our trio, particularly
given Marty’s enduring nonchalance paired with poor
Edward’s propensity to fall like Humpty Dumpty for
all things fleeting, noncommittal. As for me, while
I missed our triangular camaraderie, I could not even
imagine falling for Marty. Furthermore, it was beginning
to dawn on me how nice it had been being away from
the two of them together, given the thick cloud of tension
those two had stirred up. I’d become relaxed, at ease;
I was downright pleasant. And I was enjoying something
I’d never had the pleasure of acquainting myself with be-
fore: solitude. Not terribly pleased with the notion, it
appeared that I was becoming a hippie, was getting in
touch with the inner me

“Okay, sorry Doug. Really. I’ve had my moment. I can
deal with this. Right?” Edward was never really able to
deal with much of anything without the appearance of
animated suffering. He blinked his wet piercing eyes.
I tried to make soothing contact but was suddenly
caught a bit off-guard by the blue brilliance of them;
some tiny portion of my brain was posting an adhesive
note to my heart: “found something . . . further research
required . . . at more opportune time.”

Not that I hadn’t noticed before. I was always just too
busy with my affected indifference and the often over-
whelming duty of maintaining calm. Impervious.

mmmclxxxi

Chapter 18: The Inner Me

“Don’t even try to cajole an apology out of me, Edward. I was sucking up
the cool grass with my toes underneath the most magnificent oak tree.”

[Edward’s frozen smirk]

“Marty’s in town.”  Doug figured it was best to just blurt it.

“Omigod! [world record for fastest jaw to drop from a smirk to all the way
down on the floor] Did he . . . ?”  [his head shaking as his jaw brushes the
carpet between his … what a lovely pair of shoes!]

“Marty’s in town.”

“I gathered that.  And I’m sorry.   Did he bring his Swedish friend or is he
flying solo?”

“It’s just Marty.”

“Doug, I just can’t deal with this . . .”

Fine, I’ll shut up for a minute and let him think I’m trying to absorb
his pain.