mmmcccxcviii

new poem

     There are always so many things to do.
     No matter how many of them you’ve done!
                                          —Glenn Ingersoll

I might as well make a
totally abstract to do list.

I realize what a tease I’d
be to not go ahead right

now and crank out just
for you an example of

what my abstract to do
list might look like,

but I’m actually quite
comfortable being called

a tease; it’s a notion that
has made me laugh for

several decades now –
I mean, it’s more than a

notion – since I’ve been
called a tease quite a few

times over the past several
decades. Me? A tease? I

have some pretty strong
beliefs, wrapped around

what I used to call a value
system that I was overjoyed

to see begin to solidify or
come to fruition, and the

old me, the one who might
at any given moment have

a quorum of some sort in my
very presence, would often

tout these beliefs based on this
burgeoning value system quite

vociferously. but just because
one believes strongly about

a particular subject does not
automatically mean that the

said believer is even an act
ive participant in that thing

which he might tout as being
good, a-ok, important, if no

thing else, food for lifelong
thought – for when a time a

rises wherein, say, this, what
had always been a very strong

and voluble belief might be app
ropriately put into play. I would

envision that this would become
less abstract (I’m curious, are you

at all surprised the direction these
lines are now taking, the twists and

turns that got us here – imagine for
a moment that there is no logic, no

logical progression; wouldn’t that
suck? Or would it? What if we had

no actual rules, and that all of our
belief systems—along with the values

those are potentially enwrapped and/or
tangled together with—what if all of

these were just based around hunches
rather than some sort of educated no

tions, what if there was no logic to
your or my belief system? Would

we even go to the trouble of putting
forth an effort at peaceful coexistence?).

I might start to give examples of what I am
talking about. So, here is one: I believe

strongly that monogamy is a ludicrous
construct. Just bringing this up would

always and almost immediately be the
start of quite a raucous discussion, the

purported sexuality of the quorum
notwithstanding – it’d always go

down the same: folks would be so
intrigued, mostly all vow that they

could not even imagine having an
open relationship, a non-monogam

ous one; the rules in which one might
get a bit of leeway would be discussed

(hypothetical celebrity free passes,
it’s okay to play around so long as it’s

at the gym, etc.,) and it might come up
how Europeans have infidelity down to

an art, which would allow that it is also
the expectation rather than the exception,

presumably. Now, all I said to start was
that monogamy was a ludicrous construct.

By the end of the discussion, feelings were
often visibly bruised, there were accusations

that I was trying to pawn off a belief system
to others, people would stand up for their val

ues, etc. I was the instigator. The one to be
careful around, because you might get pro

voked. I’d also often be, to the best of my
finite capacity for knowledge and my ability

to listen and comprehend and slice through all
of the bullshit, it would later appear to me,

the most ardent monogamist, the person who
would be the last to just up and disappear from

a relationship, a friendship, family, even. To
this day the hypocrisy of all that I would go

on to discover and rediscover over and over
again, the lack of logic applied to what folks

believed so strongly in, as far as I could
possibly glean.....I mean, this was a time

period in which I began to understand the imp
ortance of empathy, the same compact set of

years in which I’d, upon hearing about a friend
in need, would go out of my way to do anything

I could to make sure they were okay – it wasn’t
that this was a foreign concept with me, but for

reasons I could probably guess, I was a late
bloomer to ever feel those feelings, the need

to help others, rather than turning the other
way. I’m no martyr, please don’t imagine I am.

I do love screwing around with certain cultural 

mores, however; especially ones set up

around acts of engagement and of sex.  And any

thing near the concepts of love, commitment....

Commitment. And honesty. These are
not abstract notions. But if I were to place

myself, or these lines, in the realm of the
abstract alone; if I were to forego all meta

phor, just string a few words together as
if they were a grocery list, or things to do

at the office this week, or even design an
abstractly illegible (illegibly abstract) bucket

list, would the heartache be avoided?  Would
hard-earned values be lost? Unidentifiable? Per

haps it’s not so easy connecting even a flimsy
correlation between the thoughts I started with

a the top of this piece with anything that has

come after. And while I like to have things

very cut and dry, very clear, not so organic–

as an actor I appreciated the director who

told you exactly when to walk from one
spot to the next, exactly what to say, in what

dialect; this was not restrictive to me, it was
freeing, and I could still earn my talent, show

case some of it, be the actor with range, 

thanks especially to the directions that made 

all of that possible. I don’t know. And what

does it matter, any of what I’m saying to you

now, here, on this virtual page?  Not a thing,
really. .  .  .     We’re told to think outside

of the box. If things don’t fit comfortably,
if this narrative seems to meander, doesn’t

say much, or what is it doing exactly? And
why? Are these questions we need to answer?

Absolutely not. But it’s good to ask them
once in a while. It’s good to take on an

occasional challenge.  And to return
that favor by challenging others,

don’t you think?  Anyway, I would

say to you please have a look if you 

might.  What you see (read) is who I 

am.  What joy to imagine someone just

reading these lines to decipher a little
bit about me, and nothing else at all.

I hope you get much more than my story
here. I’m certainly awaiting yours.  With hope.

mmmcccxcvii

a limerick regarding a malamute

which i always
thought of as moose

until that one day
we went Alaska way

and boy did that dog
ever despise me

mmmcccxcvi

The Witch’s Unbearable Relief

Chips on
shoulders
rust tin men,
give cowardly
lions shoulder
blisters, leave 

a taste of dend
rite and bat
tery acid in
scarecrows’
mouths, give
Toto a case of
the incessant
round and a

rounds and
empower Dorothy
with a sense
that, if things
continue along
in this part
icular traj
ectory, she
might soon
find that she’s
grown some
wings and is
able to fly ho
me on her ve
ry own.  As
for the witches,
each are empow
ered by a love-
hate relationship
with their own
power, although
only two ever
give a second
thought to the
real feels of that 

power, and neither 

of them gets even 

a tingle of the potent

cy of the darker arts 

in which being a 

scoundrel with such 

power might involve.  

The words formed

within their mouths 

might be chewed,  

swallowed and 

digested, often 

quite uncomfortably, 

might as easily be
projectile vomited
from the landing of 

each crumbled spell
sitting in the pits of

their green stomachs
after sliding like dark
centipede-like creatures
down their elongated 

esophagi; no matter 

which direction spells 

go, the damage is
the same.  The life 

of a hag, especially 

one so constantly 

scared shitless of 

a little damp spot, 

a rainstorm, much 

less a full-in thunder

storm, the oceans, 

a tidal wave, rivers, 

creeks, sexual clim

axes, men sweating, 

the fear of a tiny 

teardrop emanat
ing from one
of their lonely
eyes, such things

have them filled 

with such elevated
anxiety.  Hence

they sound so
tormented,
demonic, how

ever they might

communicate.  

How long had it

had been since 

either had part

icipated in such?

Be they words 

filled with absurd
ities, filled with 

emotions (e.g., 
excitement, gid
diness, fear, loss):
“I’m melting!
Melting!”  But
let me offer up
to you that what
sounded like raspy
horror was the most
immense relief, the
greatest joy she’d
ever known.  She
was a witch, cursed
with a raspy and
nasally voice that
could make any
utterance sound
as if it were her
dying words.  But
these, her actual dy
ing words, the screams,
what came at us as
the horror, were 

of relief, sheer 

release, the closest 

thing to pleasure 

she’d gotten since

when?   After those
moments when

the bit of water

from that pail

at first began

to shrink the

screaming,

warted

witch, and

inevitably

took her
into the
ground,

she would

flow many a 

separate way,

somehow
making her
way to one
vast expanse
of ocean after

another, the 

wet expanse

from which 

we had all

originally

arrived.  The
relief would
last at least
until then,
although it
would dis
sipate as
what was
left of her
became more 

dispersed.  Once

a witch is gone,
she’s gone, but
there nevertheless
come out of the
intoxicated earth
the fundamentals
for more to arise
and fall, just as
this one had done.
As Dorothy began
to fall deeper and
deeper into that
feverish slumber,
as the tornado
twisted and
swept through
the dusty cor
ners of several
states, the in
cantations
that took her
over, “There’s
no place like
home” “Foll
ow the yellow

brick road!” 

“We’re off to 

see the wizard,

the wonder
ful Wizard
of Oz,”
these
were the
spells of
Dorothy
the Kansas
Witch.  It had
already been
written.  Not
in books, mind
you, but in the
stars, and with

in the tattoos
deep-set upon
the skins of the 

flying monkeys 

and a few of the

more drunken 

munchkins.

mmmcccxcv

zombie world

you know, i
don’t mind all of the
zombies here in
zombietown.

in fact, i’ve kind of
gotten used to them.
given all the toxins
let loose by the apoc

alypse, however, it’s 
a thousand wonders
i’m still here.  i
mean, i’m good

at planning ahead,
being prepared;
i know most
all of the

tricks of the trade—
of survival, that is.
how to push death
to the side when

it manages to
stand up
and hobble
its way toward me,

putting itself
between me
and wherever
i happen to be

going. yeah,
but the tough
part—the tough
part for a man

born of the world
what’s been gone now
for about as long
a duration as my

contemplation can
muster the oomph
to even imagine
anymore—

but what i do
remember...
i say but what i
do most clearly

remember. . . .
what i’m telling
you (oh, would
that you were

even here to
remember
with me),
what i meant

to say was. . . .
so i have the art
of shoving death
down to the curb.

and of moving 

ever along to 

wherever it is that i
happen to be going.

these things i can 

do, yessiree. but
when it gets right
up in your face—

when it gets so
close that you can,
that i can smell its lack—
its lack of life? why it’s

all i can do to stop
myself from, well,
from doing the same
idiot thing that i’m

doing to you now,
as if you were here
in front of me and
could hear any

of this useless litany
of words i spill at
you. it’s hard, i
tell you. it’s

getting damn near
impossible. not to
say hello. not to
attempt to

engage. but
i know as well
as you do what’d
happen the first

time i don’t
somehow man
age to quell
that impulse.

it’ll finally
have gotten
me, that’s
what. so

tighten your
lip, mister,
for here comes
one now.

mmmcccxciv

i couldn’t agree more

if so, what am i
agreeing with,
or even worse,
to, more or less?

let’s be civilized about 

this and rejigger the pro

cedure, come up w/
a better way to reach

a foregone concussion.
boy, come to think of
it, wouldn’t it be swell
to come up with a way

to conclude in a more 

diplomatic, more eff

icient, less anxiety-rid

dled manner?  who writes

these rules?  perhaps 

before getting so gung-

ho about it, we might 

better think this through. 

isn’t that the process 

we’re using at the 

moment, what got us

here in the first place?

the handbook here
makes not a lick of real
world sense, so if we put
our heads together, maybe

do a little brainstorming,
we might improve the
process.  we could app
ly this method as a

hopeful means of
improving lots of
things: lovemaking,
heat strokes, coming

up with the most
efficient, pleasant-
to-the-senses wind
ow dressings with

which to dress all
of the windows in
our shared space.

also, i might need 

some time to recon

sider my original
vote, given that,
now that i think

about it, it’s a com
plex, more involved
issue, with more var
iables to consider

that might go odd
ly sideways or ex
plode unexpected
ly when it comes

to things of this
nature, so i think
i’ll need a few
days, perhaps

a week or two,
oh and i’ll be
going out of
town on the

20th.  can i
get back to
you on the
first of the

month?  no,
i meant the
following
month.  that

should give
me an adeq
uate duration
of time during

which to go a
bout all the re
search that i im
agine would be

required in order
to come up with
an educated re
sponse.  what’s

that, again?  you
need an answer
by this wednes
day?  well how

in the heck are
we going to go
about the busi
ness of correct

ing such an in
efficient and
ridiculous pro
cedure?  we’ll

never get the
results that
would best fit
the complexity

of the problem
at hand if we’re
to put in a well
deliberated an

swer by wed
nesday!  this
is the problem
with all of our

problems, don’t
you think, john?
we’re overrun
with rules and

libraries full of
books full of
procedures
that are anti

quated, and
that simply
do not work.
how might

this problem
ever be solved,
i ask of you?
what’s that?

yep, yep, ta
king the fam
on a fishing
trip for the

long weekend.
it’s going to be
a nightmare, i
can promise you

that already.  and
what about you and
sue?  big holiday
plans?  don’t even

tell me, you’re head
ing out east to the cas
inos.  i tell you, john,
gambling...gambling

is going to be the
death of you two.
and how about
you try to stay

in the right lane
for the duration?
no more road
rage, okay?

that last time?
man, what a
story.  i worry
about you ahd

your short
tempers.  the
rules of the
road, john!

surely you’re
well aware th
at the rules ex
ist for a reason!

mmmcccxciii

true or false

     There’s no bond
     of reality between money and enough
                          —Anselm Berrigan

it’s just as important
to know how much
trouble you have
gotten yourself
into as it is to
know that
you’re in
trouble.

mmmcccxcii

my point is

     weaponized emphasis
        —Anselm Berrigan

to which i say
huzzah and
why not and
we’re poets
aren’t we?
line the
words up
until they
are worthy
of a post.
as a child,
for example,
i would have to
help my dad on
weekends build
fences.  around
pastures.  so, rath
er than spend a sat
urday reading tolk
ien, let’s say, or
stephen king, just
to toss out a coup

le of faves from 

my youth, i’d be
stuck in the
sweltering
heat some
where mid
dle of no
where
digging
postholes.
building
fences.
barbed
wire so
the cows
won’t get
out, and
so as to
deter prob
lematic animals
from getting in, i
suppose, although
that didn’t stop
most.  also,
and let’s
be honest
here, a fence
is a way to announce
to whomever might
happen along that
this is not yours,
it’s mine, stay
away, keep
out.  no need
for any sign, esp
ecially considering
the fences my dad
built.  and it’s gonna
be mine for a while
is basically what
one of dad’s past
ure fences would
seem to say.
in arkansas
history class, i
remember the
sing-songy rote
way the teacher
(he was also a
football coach,
but he was a
terrific history
teacher) taught
us to say the
native american
tribes that lived
in our state before
it was settled,
before it was
“discovered”
by ponce de
leon, who was
looking for the
fountain of
youth, so
we were
taught,
and, of
course
made
his way
north and
into what’d
become the
united state
in which i
grew up
because
there
were
rumors
about a
healing
hot spring.
anyway,
choctaw,
chickasaw,
cherokee,
creek, and
sometimes
sioux.  i
remember
that.  or
that’s how
i remember it.
also that, years
after i left arkansas
for what i assumed
correctly would be
the fabulous places
in the beyond, that
the coach was with
his wife and kids
in a car traveling
home from some
where and a drunk
driver hit their car,
killing the coach’s wife 

and kids.  perhaps i’m
remembering it a
bit incorrectly,
but he lost his
wife and child
or children,
maybe the wife
was pregnant.
i really enjoyed
arkansas history
class, and i had
no expectation
that would be
the case.  quite
the opposite.
and social
studies, which
always gave me
the worst grades.
but when the coach
was teaching, i got
really into it.  choctaw,
chickasaw, cherokee,
creek, and sometimes
sioux.  that is exactly
all that i can recall
from spending an
entire year?
semester?
studying ark
ansas history.
if i had a
point,
what
might
it poss
ibly be?
that all
day long
i’ve been
either sleep
ing or thinking
about poetry?
that i’m late
for dinner?
that i’m
in love?
that i
miss
my
dad?
that i
read a
lot of
science
fiction
when i
was in my
youth?  that
i can no longer
watch a horror
movie, no mat
ter how much
i want to?  is
that true?  that

most everything i

thought i knew

as truth was 

incorrect?  i
suppose there are
ways one might get

some real answers.

mmmcccxci

kittens grow up to be tigers

     two bits, four bits
     six bits, a dollar,
     all for the tigers
     stand up and holler!
           —a cheer i remember from high school

we are having a conversation
about mascots because i’m
wearing a t-shirt with a
tiger on it that, i
tell him, “could
have come from the
football field or the basket
ball court of my youth. high
school.” it’s important i add
high school. mascots come
from anywhere, don’t they,
but aren’t they usually from
high school or college, part
icularly associated with team
sports, right? assigned often to a
school or institution on the whole, yes?
i had fallen asleep on my broken chair
for something like two hours, and when
i woke up i felt not only upset to have
missed the two hours but also a little
violated. i had one of the two avoca
dos that i brought back from the
doctor’s office – yes, for
whatever reason, and
this part is not a dream,
i assure you, i had brought
a heavy bag filled with fruits
and vegetables from the doctor’s
office, where i had an appointment
earlier this afternoon. the nurse literally
said “you know, you get your prescriptions
from your doctors, well, this is your food
prescription,” that’s what she said. i was
a bit giddy over the prospect of going
through whatever was in the heavy
bag when i got home (which i did,
and the first thing i was to bring
out of the bag: blackberries. i
ate the entire carton of them,
did not even get up to wash
them first, they were so
sweet and so perfect).
there was a slit in one
of my avocados and i asked
you if it was okay, what i should
do about it, whether you thought it
might be good to eat – you seem to
love avocados are always talking about
adding them to this, that or the other. you
seemed a little bit nonplussed at my asking,
but said it should be fine, you suggested
peeling it a certain way, but i was already
eating it right out of the green, leathery
skin, avoiding the pit, the seed, that
object in the middle that i took
many years ago from another
avocado someone had
peeled and eaten or
cooked with or
made guacamole
dip with, and hung
with toothpicks over
an open container of
water, the nut barely
touching the water,
where i lived at the
time, i was in under
graduate school, our
mascot was, oh, we
were the warriors,
there weren’t a lot
of sports at my un
dergraduate college,
and the seed inevit

ably grew roots that

swirled about in the
water, so then i planted
it in actual soil and i
remember keeping the
plant i grew from the pit
of an avocado for quite
some time, probably
hauling it to the first
lonely apartment in which
i lived by myself, this was
in downtown little rock, and
it was there in that lonely
apartment that my avocado
plant most probably bit the
dust. anyway, as i scoop and
eat the absolutely delicious
fruit of the avocado, you
mention something about
being careful not to get
avocado hands. my hands
have clumps of little green
avocado, and i have to re
ply that it’s too late, but
you say something else
that gives me the impress
ion that avocado hands is
more of an affliction, not
just hands messy with av
ocado. i take note, but
don’t worry at all, think
ing how splendid the taste
and, once it’s all gone,
the after-taste is in
my mouth. i wonder
like i sometimes do
about various foods,
why i don’t eat more
of them, don’t buy
them fresh and bring
them home and enjoy
them on the spot like
i just did today thanks
to the nurse at my
doctor’s office. i
look down at the
tiger on the belly
of my shirt, a
shirt belly that
i’d love to lose
some of, and i
think about mas
cots and cheer
leaders and
football games
and basketball
games i’d go to
because i was in
the band, and i
continue the con
versation as if we
didn’t leave it for
quite some while,
venturing even in
other directions as
we did; i say, “it
really reminds me
of my youth. the tiger
being my childhood mascot,”
and then i think, looking further
back toward childhood, “high school
(junior high it was, appropriately, kittens.)”
to which you reply, “kittens? school mascots?”
and i just respond, as if not really hearing you,
“inert tigers in a way. babes in the world of tiger land.”
and then i get up from my broken and wobbly chair, the
one i’ve been asleep for two hours in, and i just transfer
myself over to my bed, where i read a few pages from a new
book of poetry that i’ve picked up this afternoon – “something
for everybody” by anselm berrigan – and i bring my laptop, approp
riately enough, onto my lap, and i write these few words that i’ve written,
which i will post soon, passing them along to whomever might wander by,
glance over some of the words, or stay to read it through to the end, in
either case, i’m happy you’re here, thank you so much for the company.

mmmcccxc

inside joke

     You don’t have it
     unless you can get it...
                —Rae Armantrout

how far
out of
con
text

can
floss
ing w/
gossip
be taken?

wink
wink
or
blink
blink?

you’re
funny.

wasn’t
he, tho?

phony
balo
ney’s
what
he is!

i plead
no con
text, yr
honor.

touché?

mmmccclxxxix

stoner sonnet

i am wondering how
qualified i am, as i’m
whisked away to the
army base, where i

grill sausages and big
dogs all day in front of
the px.  the sun stays on

my eyes the whole time,

no matter where i move
the umbrella. but that’s
astral projection, or per
haps, time travel. i

tried to suggest that
i’m not really qualified.

mmmccclxxxviii

a rock’s lament

to wait
is not
to live.

there’s
the rock,
there’s
the sling
shot,

and there’s
the boy
holding
them, at

first in
separate
hands.

the sling
shot is
prone,
has been
for what
seems like
forever.

the boy
takes aim
at the robin
on the tele
phone wire.

the rock
has lang
uished in
waiting.

but to
kill a
bird?

it dreamt
of soaring,
absolutely,
but this?

this
was
never
the rock’s
intent.

the boy
is focused
on the bird;
the slingshot
in his hand
is ready for
the ecstasy
of release.

the rock,
finally
soaring,
is env
eloped
in grief,
aware on
ly now that
its entire ex
istence was

but for
this boy
and this
bird.

mmmccclxxxvii

All Lip and No Bite

how often he sees
his love down on
his knees; first
he’s hunched,
then he’s hunk
ered, he can’t
find his keys.
he’s under the
table and quite
late for work, and
he’s muttering
something, can’t
make out just what,
but you know that it’s
harsh and it’s dark and
it’s denigrating, unsui
table, really, for this
time of the morning,
so, “Ben,” says the
partner still stand
ing llooking down at

the miserable man
that’s but scrunched
up in under the most
distant corner of the
end table sitting
(of course) at
the opposite end
of the coffee table
from where Norman
(the one that’s is stand
ing) is, “Benny,
I’ve got your keys
in my hand over
here, they were
in yesterday’s
khakis, like always,
my dear.”  then
Ben’s up from the
floor, but first there’s
a bonk as he bangs his
head at the marble
underside of the
table he’s somehow
gotten himself
under, nearly lifting
it clean all four legs off
the floor (and it’s not
a light lift with that
green slab of marble),
“oh, goodness!  oh,
thanks Norm,” he’s
back on his feet, and
not just a teensy
bit awkwardly.  he
grabs the keys out
from Norm’s thin-
fingered clasp and he
(this he does gracefully)
plants a real kiss onto Nor
man’s thin lips and he’s
out the door, van
ished, all lickety-split.

mmmccclxxxvi

3 great big things*

-Art
-Tickle
-Able

*(that are good.)

mmmccclxxxv

The Dumdum Conundrum

is earthbound, just astride

the bay, and has flying 

daggers, or at least a

ton-pounded arrow

replete with a
monster gold

en half-buried-

into-the-earth
bow.
the arch
ery badge
i earned in
boy scout camp
gave me a splendid
feeling, it's true. but how 

could i not but feel an even 

bigger burst of life than when

i sunk to the bottom of a lake 

with a massive rock tied inside 

of my t-shirt, only to soon and

somehow,  miraculously find 

myself gasping the air with my

head above water in mere 

seconds.... so no matter the

bevy of hifalutin insignia that
adorned my own sash of merit,
that swimming badge, simple
as it might have appeared, pro
vided the most gratification of
all. it was mine. i earned it. i
don’t think there was a badge
for sitting on a cliff with one’s
legs dangling over it. or for
somehow managing to twist
through the mangled limbs
of the trees that jutted out of
the rocks of that steep incline,
my dangling toes just below,
yet seemingly miles above,
the papery fields below.
i suppose a bow and ar
row might give one
a better than zero
chance of getting
one or two places
alive, surely, but
to swim is nothing
less than to sur
vive. archery
seems more
like some
thing roy
alty do
with a
fox and
maybe a
dead bird;
or science fic
tion like the hung
er games, or robin
“the rich to help the
broken broke” hood.

i earned that badge, 

too. but.  to swim 

rather than drown 

seems a much more
down to earth (but
yet, deadly, just for 

the lack of earth) and 

practical skill one might 

use or need to use at 

a moment’s notice, 

without the advantage 

of forethought  (“look, 

i brought
my bow
and a few
gurgle!”).
(“oops, can’t
swim, i’m a
goner! gurgle!”)
(“gone!”). then

there’s the
myth of solid ground. until, of course the
earthquake hits when, if you’re in my vic
inity, anyway, might have you spinning
around in something called liquefaction.
which, unlike quicksand, at least sounds
like something one might be able to es
cape somehow by means of a capability
to swim. i like to be prepared for the wo
rst, but can’t recall there being an apoc
alypse merit badge, nor one for global
warming (although maybe there is now?), 

nor one for crashing into an iceberg, or 

falling from the sky in a burning zeppelin. 

i remember an old readers’ digest comic, 

where the hindenburg and the titanic 

are crossing paths. both have a 

couple of fingers raised as one 

goes one way and the other goes

the opposite, each with smug grins
on their “faces” with a tiny text
bubble apiece. the bubbles had
identical text: “be prepared.”
it’s also quite possible that
my memory is playing tricks
with me and that the vision
of the cartoon inserted the
seeming reams of supposedly

condensed text (i was a kid)

is something that i only 

just now, spontaneously 

and subconsciously
invented. none
of this prepares
either one of us
for the inevitable,
however, would
n’t you agree?

mmmccclxxxiv

benny brown the out-of-town clown

“hey there, mister
frowny clown, wh
at’s got you down?”

most clowns go
here and there about
town minding their

own business, but
appreciate their
renown, the fam

iliarity with which,
when found sitting
at the beach, on

a park bench, in a
subway or a bus,
when approached

as if an acquaintance
or a friend not seen
in a very long time.

“i am known!”
thinks the doctor
william benjamin

brown, of benny
brown dental, who
is just in the city for

a bit of clowning a
round; he’s erstwhile
known as “benny

brown, dds, pound
for pound, the best
dang dentist in down

town harrisburg.”
billy, as his own
mother called him,

had a thing about
being bound to his
profession, as it

were. so once
every couple of
months, he’d

venture up to
the armoire in
the attic (ador

ned with scads
of colorful ring
ling brothers eph

emera), break out
his bozo bin that
was chock-full of

make-up, spend an
hour or two (or three)
transforming himself

into benny brown
the out-of-town
clown. and then

he’d give his ever-
patient wife (the sw
eet downy brown)

a peck or two
on the cheeks
and then per

haps another
but light one on
the lips (downy

wasn’t a bit
fond of the
taste of her

dear william’s
humongous
burgundy

frown), then
he’d hop
into his

dusty rose-
colored cutlass,
scoot over to

mcgown’s liquor
abounds, for a
mid-sized bottle

of crown, and
then off he’d go,
to the big city,

for a night of
nothing but
clowning

around. it
was a silly
habit, he’d

always tell
downy, but
it kept his

feet planted
right down
on the ground.

and it did, he’d
think each evening
he zoomed out of

town and toward
the city, he’d think
exactly of that –

and while mulling
on that our dear
william ben

jamin brown,
dds, had a
smile so wide

that it all but
devoured that
big burgundy

frown off the
overly painted
and powdered

up face of good
benny brown, the
out-of-town clown.

mmmccclxxxiii

A Seismic Idea

but it wasn’t a rift
between us, it’s
just we’re on the
same fault. which
is always mine, i
can say it, mine,
but what’s it to
possess another
human? it’s nice
we never talk
like that. but
with such a
rumble?! i’d
prefer to be
super-human,
but maybe
rather than
fly (you know
how i am about
the sky), i’d rath
er hustle through
the crumbling earth
like, i don’t know,
underwater sonar,
and i’d be there
and back again
in no time flat,
only i’m not
saving the
universe,
nope,
just you,
after which
i’ll retire my
super-hero out
fit and we can
go wherever
you’d like—
but perhaps
someplace
where we
might could
explore alter
native disasters
(or maybe
even none
at all?),
that is,
if it’s
okay
with
you.

mmmccclxxxii

Hard Nut Holler
(a tough snuff to swaller
& also impossible to foller)

and all the
neighboring
hollers, to
which I
give my
hardhearted
appreciation,
because grow
ing up with y
ou as neighb
ors, while see
mingly unrem
arkable at the
time, all I’m
saying here
is what a
naive arky,
packed his
bags full o’
the mullarky
of neglect of
neighborly
neighbors,
neighborly
neighs, even,
but look, and
yuck and sorr
ow I’d so many
lucky tomorrows
because alit with
the affluence of
human decency,
oh to retreat back
to naivete, given,
good cousins,
there’s nothing
like a holler
that, bullying
not, gets back
a congruent
holler, in
camaraderie,
encouragey
solidarity,
than, oh,
just any
other kind
of a whiny
holler, I’d
no idea how
high among
the hollers,
my own and
those neigh
boring, I

was at the

time, how

much high

er than 

those I

now and

more mod

ernly know

which are 

plain me

anspirited,
spent like
an axe me
ant to cut
one right

down to 

the ground,
and the old
cranky man
at the end
of the made
for teevee

movie gets
felled by the
tallest and
bullyest tree,
can’t thank
you enough
for planting
the seed and
I guess, hey,
laments just

like me and

that tree,
say maybe
a massive
oak, I don’t
really know 

what I’m try

ing to say
to you 
people
with he
art who
gave me
this art
of hang
ing out

with and

among all
the hollers,

I mean
how I 
so wish
for the
peace
and the
growth of
silence,
which I
might
should
offer
all you
hollerers
of back

in the day – 

I’m so sorry. 

it’s hard not 

to echo your
hollowed
out sent
iment now.

mmmccclxxxi

Servitude

the difference
between an order
and a request.

the order came
through.  i
failed

to do the
same.
when final

ly let
go, the
sting at

the bottom
of my throat;
the fingered

red rings
around my
neck.  i

got so embarr
assed and
couldn’t

breathe for
what seemed
like forever

being held
up onto a
wall by

a big
banker
in the

very
early
90’s.

i kicked
a man in
the gut to

get him out
of my truck
in the teenage

years of the
21st century.
a pacifist

values life.
isn’t that
the point

of being
one?

mmmccclxxx

what i do evenings


late

push

of the tip

towards

midnight,



scrubbing

the parchment

until it bleeds.



not always.

nothing’s always.

mmmccclxxix

what happens

when we die

we live

maybe

a little

longer

mmmccclxxviii

Hoopla Holler

If you’re finding
lots of typos on
this rad, long-
standing blog,

you should know,
perhaps, it’s all
due to my brand
new fancy job.

mmmccclxxvii

mental-mania

the bored bard played up
a fake barf, knowing full
well that the story would
lead somewhere worthwhile,

considering the fact that the
preliminary payola deal was
struck by the number-crunch
ers with a buncha lunks who

didn’t know from shinola
down over at loyola. those
nobodies’d never seen 

nothin’. and ordinarily i

would’ve paid them no
how do you do, but, mind
you, these were not your
ordinary joes, no howdy

doodies these wheeler-
dealers, as the old man so
often would say, always ad
ding “but remember, only

once they defeat us will the
sex be determined.” but then,

lo and behold, as if the barn-door
were left wide open, a mass

ive welcome mat right in
the front of it sayin’ “cows
only! does eat oats and
goats can go blow!”

but there were the go
phers. “oh, bo’, how

low can you go?” “i
dunno,” sez barney,

“but we’ve only got
two choices.” barney,

knowing full well what
was coming, wouldn’t

let the poor guy finish.
“lemme guess,” he says,
“it’s either buck up for
some tic-tac-toe,

or swing to your part
ner, do-si-do, and get
the flunky unclucky
duck way the heck

outta there, like jon
athon swift.” percy
overheard the entire
conversation, the walls

being, in all practicality
(a sensibility of which nei
ther of these three clowns
had one solid ounce of,

even if combined, pound
for pound), paper-thin at the
hodge-podge lodge in (none
other than) downtown dodge.

mmmccclxxvi

“Hey, guess what?!”

right now i have this thing,
you see, of telling you a little
something of me, a

craving, you might rightfully
call it, of a little bit of nothing
or a terrible lot of everything.

such as, for example, my lap
top, which feels about as if 

it’s on its last legs. and while

you might then say, “laptops
don’t have legs,” i’d then

offer a “how right you are!”

and tell you a bit about 

my very own, the ones 

upon which i am when

i am walking, which most
ly, in point of fact, do that
walking literally for me,

how today they’re really very
sore from walking here and
there and more, and if you’d

chime in with “how come?”
there’s more, so much more
that i would then tell, such

as “i’ll tell you how come,”
and go on about work, my
job, the means with which

i assume i’ll get paid,
which i started only
yesterday, which ,as

i recall, was a gleaming
tuesday. “right you are,”
and “congrats!” you’d say,

which’d almost whelm me as
it were, because only just atop
this very week did i have at

this place my first interview,
that is, with this particular
lovely crew, as in reality

i’d had so many interviews
(except never had these
been in person at all,

they’d often been on
the cellphone as a call,
or mostly, rather, a face-

to-face via video, for
safety’s sake, you see,
thanks to the pandemical

world in which now we
exist) this past couple of
months that, i counted,

amounted to twenty
and two, so here i
am spending some

time here with you,
dwelling quite heavily
on interview number

twenty-three, that is
the 23rd one i have
had in roundabout

this past 2.5 months.
and why was i saying
this? now i remember.

it’s all because you are
standing right here
next to me and

out of nowhere i
couldn’t but hanker
to talk about me,

just to tell you a little
of what’s going on
now that it’s been so

long that i’ve spent
by myself in my
room just waiting

and working toward
this very moment
to happen.  thank

you for being here,
you’re such a dear.
i’m so happy you

made it, as if that
weren’t clear. and
now i work regularly,

like a person, how
awesome it is to
be able to tell you

that not very small
bit about who i am
right now; everything

seems a bit strange
it turns out, most
especially, i’m sure,

thanks to various
things going on
in the world that

have kept me (i
must with some sad
ness relay) from

not only seeing
you like this,
what had

most of forever
seemed perfectly
normal, but also

because this
fair news i
just told you

is the most news
i’ve uttered to

anyone’s face

in what seems
far too long.
it’s in fact

made me most
undeniably dizzy.
so don’t go just yet

if you kindly don’t

mind, let me make
you a drink, that’s

if you would like.
yes, please join me.
somewhere there’s

a bottle of wine
we can sip, i in
sist and, well, 

as we spend all the
evening and some
of the night talking

up our good selves,
just you and me, it’ll
be the most wonderfully

perfect thing to help

smooth all the mess of

the past several months.

just to talk about us.
and in so doing we’ll be

temporarily free from the 

worries of time and what was 

and just be. what a swell way
to live once again, and unwind.

mmmccclxxv

 (in honor of the fact there is nothing whatsoever in that drawer,* but 

 with a little less cynicism. and a lot less idiotic than my last attempt.)

 i am not a cynic: a “sonnet”

 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.

 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.

 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.
 i am not a cynic.

 i am not a cynic.

*w/deference to Ron Padgett

mmmccclxxiv

hot night with google

     I think it’ll be fine.
             —John Ashbery

it’s as unsexy
as it could po
ssibly get. an
d this is not th
e first time, and
i presume won’t
be the last. una
uthorized charg
es on an account,
one i set up for t
he magazine, whi
ch i haven’t even
used, $140, and,
the big news, the
BIG NEWS, i go
t a job, i start to
morrow, it seem
s like a wonderf
ul new job, i can
not wait, my 20
th interview or
21st in over 2
months, after
a pandemic,
after isolat
ion at home
after isolation
isolation i
so lation 4
so long not
one person
not one per
son not one
person in th
is room bes
ides me and
the roach in
spectors for
nearly two s
olid years so
when i say h
ot night with
google over
unauthorized
payments that
were made we
ekly on an acc
ount i never e
ven open and
count your st
ars i am not g
iving you at le
ast not now al
l the many rea
sons why this
account hasn’
t even been o
pened but tw
ice while on the
phone all night
with google on
a hot hot night
two of the most
unsexy nights i
can recall ever
having (and th
ere have been
more than i
can count on
my fingers a
nd toes that i
remember vi
vidly perhaps
three times o
ver so that’s
what i’m te
lling you
now good
night hello
new job wh
at can i say
to google t
hat might b
e relayed h
ere absolu
tely nothing