mmmcdxlv

“To Be a Player...”

is a tiny portion
of a quote I just
heard journalist
Dana Bash use.
She said it from
my telephone
a couple of
minutes ago,
moments after
I awoke (at
2:30am) to be
gin my day.
She was refer
encing Vladimir
Putin, and using
the word, presum
ably in the sense
of being a partici
pant in a game,
whether it be a
team sport or
a one-on-one
match, but she
finished the sent
ence in such a way
(“...and to play those
individuals [who oppose
him; his foes, in this
case]”), that had her
clearly using it
with one of its
many alternative
meanings: to trick.
That connotation,
the array of ways to

perceive a word, if 

you will, to enjoy the
camaraderie of be
ing a team play
er, to go head to 

head with an opponent
or to toy with or
trick, the words...
the words, they
all begin to fade,
and the journalist
with them, the
cellphone, my
environment;
and in my head
I begin to envision
a fiery groundswell
in the distance,,
localized there at first

then slowly expanding.

There is nothing else 

but this grand yellowish 

expansion in the distance 

that begins to mushroom,

as it grows upward and into the sky

in slow motion, the hue of it having been

a deep navy blue at first, as the universe 

often appears around dusk or right be

fore dawn, but it starts to change
colors just as the growing and
now more orange-colored expanse
did. Steadily, the color of the
morning sky, this bubble of des

truction, its hue(s), which become
ever more bright and brilliant,
merging into one, shifts from yellow 

to orange (beautiful!) the far reaches

of the sky a bit more violet, then

orange then redder and redder. and 

as the colors converge into this

melded vermillion which gets – 

occluded? – by a window-rattling, 

overwhelming, earth-shattering,

all-engrossing N O I S E – – –
and as the evolution of the colors
in the distance become more
solid, more unified, color simply

bleeds liquidly out into the universe,
blanketing the earth in this colorful

expansion/explosion which makes 

its way to me (sitting upon what
was once a bed); it becomes the air
that I am no longer breathing, that I 

can no longer breathe. This horrific

scene engulfs vision, imagination, 

as it takes over so completely

that consciousness evaporates
into – literally? – N O T H I N G –
which has now become all that is left.

Finally.  There is no team with which 

to enjoy conviviality, no teammates

with whom to play. No more games,
no more playing at war, no offense,
no defense, because there
are no adversaries, there is 

no one to tackle,

nothing to pillage.

There is no victor,

no last man standing, 
no flagstaff in grip.

No grip.  No one.

Nothing.  None of it.

 

My eyes
open again.
I hear a new
journalist
jabbering,
and glance
to my left to
catch in the
corner of my
eye an unopened
deck of cards. Might
anyone care for a game?
But the day, the day. To
which I respond aloud,
nonsensically,
breath nearly
sapped from
the cinematic
vision, so ,that

I am all but

voiceless,
a mere whim

pered song:

to play,
to play,
oh, day,
today.
oh, just
this day
to play!

mmmcdxliv

Jibblish

Why bid a neat dum-
dum wing juice to be
an Ed and bungle it?

A panoply of dander docks
a slug, pays Mrs. Guare,
methinks at Pete’s biz,

MiniWear. Pat’s troubled
butt band’s slipped slightly anal,
like Ed, who always goes

for the softer tissues. On strike
Ned poos hallways like a proper
cockatoo mumbles jumbles.

mmmcdxliii

3 found fragments
(seemingly unrelated)

“While the last bird may
be gone, yours just
can’t get the
stink out of the
chicken house.”

[from what is legible
on this page, the words
above are most likely 
attributed to a

Michael T. Moore]

~~~

Maybe he should
Question --->
---> boing afraid to say

[a box with an arrow pointed at two circles 

to the right, numbered 1 and 2; the one 

numbered “2” has another arrow pointed 

to its right]

What a relief give me a minute...

the meeters are who
could...

to come together in
peace, unity and excite
enough productivity....

[Note: within this fragment there
are a total of five short arrows which
point toward the right edge of the page]

~~~

Where I am to arrive
is pointed only north,
is always as pointless
as sleep.  The haggard

troll, its back to us, is 

below the floating curtains,
so it breathes like the 

curtains, deeply into the

plate of a moon that shines
directly in through the window
and away from his silhouette;
it is a cowardly moon

that wonders why the
troll is on the other side
of the window; why it must
always dream from the inside.

When the troll awakens,
it is has been burnt almost
to a carcass and is alert enough
to know why. It was the moon.

mmmcdxlii

Now is a good time to up the ante

Isn’t it good when we up the ante?
Isn’t it good when we give ourselves
higher goals? Yeah, so now that we
have talked to Google and Apple
and T-Mobile and the person talking
to his dolls on the sidewalk of Howard
Street and been accosted by the
lady who works at the front desk of
the apartment complex in which
we live, after having been so maturely 

yelled at by her for asking her to kindly 

inform if she works in my apartment 

building because I did not recognize her 

and after being asked to see my

key, which had never happened, and 

now that I have zero dollars and
zero cents and see no cents coming

anytime soon, and now that I’ve once 

again and so publicly begun a fundraiser
in hopes to get a buck or two — my 

least favorite thing in the world, and 

now that it  has been determined that 

I was hoodwinked into buying a brand
new iPhone (I had just purchased one) 

by a rep at T-Mobile during a call in which

I triple- and double-checked all of the
price points she gave, yet when I was

sent a new phone that I was told was

free, I am instead expected to pay more
than double the price I did for the first, 

and yet now that four managers have 

informed me that there’s nothing I can 

do but pay such a price, and now that

I just had my Moderna booster shot,

which put me in bed with aches and 

fever through most of yesterday and 

some of today and since most of what
I’m telling you has transpired today, 

and now that I won’t have access to 

my email until Tuesday or Wednesday, 

so it is likely not a worthwhile venture

to look for a job until after then, and 

now that I have told you that I’ve 

probably received the last of my

unemployment, which allowed me 

to survive the pandemic and being 

laid off in March of 2020 because of it,
and now that i have told you that
the job I had which I thought was
the coolest back at the end of Sept
ember ended because “You’re not a 

good fit,” was taken from me because 

“you would really hate it” with the caveat

“I’m not psychiatrist but you should be in 

theater somewhere as corporations are clearly 

not for you” when I have happily and quite

successfully worked in corporations big and small 

for 30 years, so, well, now that you know

all of this you know what a pickle I’m

presently in and probably have some
idea how I’m doing, despite upping my

ante to as top notch as I can muster yet
knowing that now there seems to be a clear

need for more ante to be upped, my question is 

how much does it matter how much one ups the

ante, how much sweat, tears and crazy work
must one give to the all-too-often good-for-
nothings who deserve nary a notched increase
from whatever of your life they get from you 

in this lousy game — just you all wait!  So many 

fantastic things are coming, just you wait.  

It will,I am certain of it.  And so what if it doesn’t?

mmmcdxli

I Don’t Know Where I Don’t Live Anymore

A whole bunch.
This could turn
out to be some
thing amazing!
I’ll try to figure
it all out soon.
Starting now.

mmmcdxl

                Music Makes the People. . . .
                           —Madame X

A whole bunch
of people said
that once. And
isn’t it more true
than just about any
thing else? Also,
might you describe
for me and for any of
the folks here in our studio,
as well as anyone out there
who might be tuned in and
just the least bit curious,
how any of this might be
quantified? I’m just kidding.
Because that’d be entirely
unnecessary. I know I am
being less than clear here.
And not that this will help,
but this week, I have found
myself in a very odd place?
By which I mean that every
day this week, as I wake up,
I have been, well, I have been
clearly identifying, explaining
so that pretty much anyone
can grasp, some timely (for me)
problem or another. And then
clearly laying out a fix, a viable,
always confoundingly simple
solution, explaining exactly what
it would take to correct this
gross malfeasance, this massive
humanitarian disaster. What!?
But seriously, if you would just
hear me out for a minute. I made
up my mind, as if in realization that
this sort of thing was way too difficult
if not downright impossible for a me,
I decided, a very long time ago
that I couldn’t change the world,
found it impossible to take
any of our—let’s call them
institutional—problems, to take
any of the way too numerous
problems that face humanity,
that’s us, here in this universe,
that’s home, then to paint a verbal
picture, provide some backup ev
idence of said problem’s exist
ence, including laying out in a
clear fashion to all of the rest,
of us, the magnitude of, the rela
tive harm, that said problem pro
vides to us, each and all, by in
variably crushing or pulverizing
our combined materiality most
assuredly and steadily into dust,
blowing out the dust of us, so
to speak, regularly, daily—
the import of the problem.
See, I’ve already lost you.
I’m not the guy to do this,
that’s what I’ve been, what I
am saying I realized a long while
back, not at all the most eff
ective human to clearly pre
sent the problem, provide
the evidence of it (providing
the evidence of problems of
such magnitude still seems
laughable; I mean, wouldn’t
we all know it’s a problem??
But that’s not even the most
profound light bulb in all of
this, for me, which would be),
I repeat, providing evidence
of the problem and its severity.
Because I’m too close to the
problem?? What?! Well, no.
I mean yeah, I’m too close
to it, that’s certain. To them.
There’re a lot of these problems
that affect negatively our entire
cumulative livelihood, liveliness,
our life, our lives, it turns out. And
I simply don’t have enough voice.
But what I’ve been realizing so
giddily as I wake up every day
this week presenting my case,
in some sort of transition be

tween conscious and not, 

presenting it loud, aloud,

from or within some sort of
dream state, and to whom?,
to one in which, albeit in a
room wherein only I live,
posing a clear thesis, laying
the whole thing out so that
even the least of us, the
least of us, me, so that
I might actually get it,
and then smoothly and
articulately finish the
whole thing off (and by
this time, the dream state
has completely dissipated
and I’m hearing my voice
reach up to the small rec
tangular ceiling of my
coffin-sized apartment,
seeing my voice reach
out, because I’m awake
and what I am saying is
clear, makes sense, and
I’m literally making the
noises of it all, lying in
my broken-down and
very real [isn’t it?] bed
. . . . . . Well.)
Those high-falutin’ occu
pations of, sure, of relative
import that we, well, that
I tell myself, have told my
self for as far back as I can
remember, because for some
reason I’ve proven this, to my
self, that these occupations, of im
port, I’ve told myself that I’m simply
not the right man for the job, too imposs
ible, requires too much patience, just do
not have the right kind of intuition, but,
well, it turns out I’m a late bloomer, and
that we’re always picking up a few new
tricks, right? Aren’t we? Am I? Our choices
are not as limited as our little heads imagine;
imagination is limitless. Or we just imagine
something too true, like laziness. Right? Do I?
So, music. There are songs upon which I dwell,
but, oh hell, I could present this playlist to you
so that I might, so that we might feel familial?
We are family! It’s the obvious stuff that’s the
hardest to clearly relay, you know, so that a, say,
kindergartner might get, clear as day, palm slap
to the forehead-like, why didn’t I think of that-like.
Well, I blew it again. But if you’d been here this
morning, we might be well on our way to solving
all of the world’s, all of humanity’s, problems.
I suppose there’s always tomorrow. But, boy,
wouldn’t that be something? Sigh.
Art. Not thought.

mmmcdxxxix

Sloppy Joe’s at the Drive-In Cinema

Catching up with
Stephen Colbert was
nice and all but the offer
to catch Rosemary’s Baby
at the drive-in (Curfew
SinemaXXX, they call it
as of late) was an offer I
couldn’t refuse. You
didn’t hear it from me,
though, Stephen, sir,
but I’d have been such
a horror as a comedian.
Yet in a trad shriek-fest
I coulda been a contender.
Or at least a frontal lobotomy.
Yeah, I’m definitely mixed
up because, man, when you
lose your laugh you lose
your footing. Either way,
late bloomers, which I’d
have been if anything at all,
don’t get served the roast
beast these days; that goes
rare to the kiddos, served
with some fava beans, but
there isn’t any chianti and
there aren’t any roses.
Anyway, apologies, apologies,
am I ever whining tonight.
And it isn’t just whimsy,
either, Doc, I mean, I
think I broke my back.
Or at least slipped a
disc. That’s when
you said ‘I’ll have
what she’s having,’—
what a jerk, I think,
(cuz I’m such a wild
and crazy guy). Still,
I’m a pushover, I tell
ya. When you ask
how it slipped
I said sliding in
to the Batmobile
all deep-throaty.
Heh, was I wearin’
my daisy dukes you
might, like a fish called
Wanda, wonder (I
wish), to which I might’ve
to wit been inclined (I
always whined, but
Kevin clined) to
retort all hurt-like
that if you really
want to know
what people are
wearing, all you
had to do is look
at them. But I’m
too nice, and Kev,
he’s always had
me at hello, so
I just glanced over,
winked, and said,
“Thanks for the
memories.”
To which he
chuckled and said,
“Well, nobody’s perfect.”

mmmcdxxxviii

How Did I Miss One?
Where Did It Go?

The
possibilities
are
always
endless.

And I am

only a writer.

How would I know?

mmmcdxxxvii

The Final Stretch

I am reading
ever so slowly
towards the end
of Wobble by
the beloved Rae
Armantrout. How
many times I say
her name just to
say it, write it
just to type it
and to show
case a hero

of mine
and this time,
today, while
seemingly
staring down
the same page
for days (for
days!). At
the same
page of
spare and
precisely
placed words.
To commem
orate, I take
a photo for my
guy, the lover
I have yet to
touch, even
after all but
two entire years,
lifetimes, as it
were, thanks
to lives lived
in separate
hemispheres
and a human
war with a
virus, I snap
a photo just
for him of me
reading slowly
towards the end
of Wobble.
For whatever
reason, and/
but of course,
the photo that
comes of the
event shows
what appears
to be a mini
ature version,
a wee me, read
ing a gargantuan-
sized version of
her book. An app
ropriate illusion
if ever there was
one. I zap the
photo to the
other hemi
sphere, as
we do, and
I immediately
get a call from
him, a video
call. He calls
me because I
have asked him
to call. But only
him. At present,
while I slowly
and slower still
work my way
toward the end
of this wonderful
book, I will only
accept his call,
no other. So I
answer his call,
happily, and read
him two of the
poems from this
wonderful, seem
ingly gigantic
book, one that
certainly has
dwarfed me
in a simple
photograph,
and quite
hilariously,
adding here
and there to
the words from
the two poems
I have chosen
randomly and
urgently to read
to him, adding my
own words, for
worse, rather than
better, of course,
as if there is need
to explain anything
(there never is with
the Lady Armantrout)
but I giddily explain
and re-explain, att
empting to show a
few of the many
facets of a short
few of the brief
stanzas or sections.
First I read “Instuctions,”
and as it floats down 

its single page while 

flying like a supersonic 

jet through our brains 

while gaining
impossible speed,
yet slowly and stead
fastly floating, the
words, as they do,
down that singular
dizzying path, all the

way to that hard
stop right at the
bottom, as the jets
in our brains have
spun out of control,
maddeningly, and yet
quietly, landing us both
somewhere looking at
the same map of London,
a map with two exits out

of the metropolis, one
in red, the other in blue.
A precocious baby has
died in the arms of a
mother who may have
given birth to her the
day before, an ogre of
a man has shot off un
remembered words filled
with such condescension
that indicate he blames
the mother for the baby’s
sudden death, words that
loom like the supersonic
explosions we cannot get
out of our heads as we stare
quietly at the map and wonder
which exit is to be ours.  Kaboom.
Second, I reading “Trick” which
reveals quite assuredly the great
riddle of how you don’t have it
unless you’ve got it... or can get 

it, that is. But how?  I excitedly

tell him about my poem in
response, in which I’ve so
proudly, I think at first,
turned the riddle back
onto the poem. But
then it hits me, and
I’m so excited I can
barely give emotion
to my thoughts, much
less actual words, which
have, as it turns out, been
done irrevocably and quite
already for me. And you.
And my guy. In explaining
how clever I am, I realize I’ve
been duped – as no riddles 
linger – every answer is right
here, and succinctly, on the
page.  The sphinx has let out
her dirty little secret for all
to hear and know and rue.
It is a fait accomplis. What
need, therefore, is any add
itional accomplice?  Zilcho.
Nada.  None.  The Secret’s
out.  It’s been delivered
directly by the poet.  She
had it all along.  Played
with it right in front of
us, and then finished it
so that the secret exists
no more.  She knows
this because we know
it, too.  She can’t take
it back.  And my paltry
attempt to juggle her
well-worn baubles of verity
for a tiny giddy moment,
thinking that I was in
any way adding or even
replying or fancifully
retorting to her brilliant
words, were nothing but
a fraud, an attempt to
impress my love with a
juggling act; it lasts for
maybe a moment or two,
but for what, because, 

the secret exists no longer,
there’s no need for a show,
no need for tell, no need for
frippery, not even for any
engagement of any kind.
And while he does indeed care
for me, he cares not a jot for jugglery.
The show’s over, the juggling’s done,
and even in my embarrassment, I’m
elated to have been there, to have been
so intimate with the words and with my
love, perhaps such intimacy that I have
never even known, with the palatable
hope, or rather the sheer knowledge, the fact,
that there will be more and more 

and much more to come.

mmmcdxxxvi

November Promises

Now is perhaps when I should relay
Over to You
Very fine folks that to keep a little personal promise, an
Exercise if you will, on goal, I have written and somehow
Managed to post a whole
Bunch of poems (That’s, at last count, I believe,
Eleven, plus this one?) in a period of time shorter than the last two days. Wait,
Really the 2-day total with the one final poem coming shortly will be sixteen. WowI

mmmcdxxxv

An Acrostic Poem for Ms. Cleta Hoffman, My 4th Grade Teacher

As it turns out, I am a
Cross, and to be more thorough, I’m Del
Ray Cross
Of the
Small town of Charleston, Arkansas, which is
Tucked
Into my state’s namesake River Valley around about the Ozark Foothills. It was in
Charleston that Cleta Hoffman, my 4th Grade Teacher, submitted a poem I wrote while taking her
Serendipitous class—it was a goofy sonnet entitled “Math”—into a statewide competition,

That like most all of the other poems “submitted,” no doubt WON, by
Henceforth being published with all of the other winners into
A
Not very tiny tome, but rather, in a compendium, a
King-sized magazine: a magazine of poetry! 

So, to

Ms. Hoffman, educator of dreamers, lover of poetry and teacher of 

Screwy 4th graders, my
Heart and gratitude goes out to you wherever you may be:

Thank you for pouring a little bit of poetry into my soul.  

It was always and never enough.

mmmcdxxxiv

“Wobble” by Rae Armantrout

Well, I’ve done it.
Only,
Boy, oh,
Boy, Why did I ever
Let it
End?

mmmcdxxxiii

Itinerant

“Idiot,” I say
To myself.
“I’ve done this before.”
“Never
Ever!” I
Reply before quickly hushing up.
Art.
Not
Thought.

mmmcdxxxii

Veteran’s Affairs

“Vedral was in the military?” I entreat or
 Exclaim, suddenly not certain. I hear “Alzheimer’s,” 
 Thinking yes, that was Ved, but the rest nod off as if in prayer. “Hey,
 Eddie!!” I’m shaken. He knew the payout, knows the prayer by
 Rote. “But he was MY UNCLE!!” I shake
 And stutter the words everywhere.

“Not so, Ray!” It’s Irv, of course, “Thinks he 

 ’s a know-it-all,” thumb-pointing my way, then,

“Says here Great Uncle.”

 As if there’s a difference? I
 Fluctuate between lost and finally seeing who Uncle Vedral was. Between
 Finding myself securely and then getting lost in the confusion
 And the clatter, or whatever noise you call that made by
 Industrial strength Styrofoam plates overfilled with gravy and almost nothing else.
“Ray...” beckons Aunt Pearl! I cut her off, and the room, which I
 Slice with my machete into enough pieces for everyone to take home some of

        their own.  “You think I didn’t know about the affairs?? Everybody knew

        about Ved and his affairs!!”  Until, that is, nobody did.

mmmcdxxxi

“You Might As Well
Get Used To It.”

“That’s gonna take
years of practice.”

mmmcdxxx

Colossal

“It’s a
colossal
little motor
within such a
tiny device,”
he said, as if
deeply interested.
And then he inhaled
from it, blowing a fog
of smoke that drenched
the entire San Francisco block
for what seemed an eternity to each
of his omnipresently bleached-out pals.

mmmcdxxix

Why Not?

Which nut said yes to all of this
Hippie nonsense? You no doubt read me right;
Yep, I asked who agreed to all of this here hippie-dippy

Nonsense?
Oh, like you have no idea who
The culprit is
?

mmmcdxxviii

Some Not-So-Professional Advice

Del,
Everyone, good
People,
Rotten ones,
Everybody. Get
Stoned! You probably heard correctly, that’s right. I said
Stoned!!
Engage with the ganja, get
Done up, blazed, crunked and/or zaded

If that’s your pleasure. And if it’s generally not, but you’re generally
Sad? Well, this formerly paranoid, once persnickity,

Not-so-fierce advocate of being chopped, faded or generally
Obliterated suggests you might just get chopped, faded or obliterated. And
Then maybe even huggied (?). I

Say
This with some newfound experience.  So try on some quasi-pseudo-antidisestablishmentarian
Obliteration; get steeched, chonged or otherwise blowed one down-and-out
Night or one down-and-out day, or hey, maybe even a whole super-low year. I’ve yet to 

Embark upon an entire year, I will admit, but I’ve known some long-term yatsdenots, and they 

Do seem relatively and fairly consistently happy.

mmmcdxxvii

Dusting Off The Ol’ Mustachios Again, I See!

At (during, pending, poking, prodding) the verity of
Riding the surfless, unwet waves with the unemployed from 

Back at the start of the pandemic to beyond the foreseeable future,
I have survived via checks that have been
Thusly labeled “unemployment” and/or “pandemicable,” etc., and so now, having
Reasonably (?) survived some nearly two years of same, I’ve decided to hone up on
Arbitrary-speak and give a polish to the old pity papers. I trust you know precisely what I mean,
Right? It goes something like “Riddledy?” “Ah, piddledee-dee!” and so on from
Ye to thee and then sometimes, somehow all the way back to the as yet unjobbable me.

mmmcdxxvi

Inside and Outside Upside-down Boxes

          You don’t have it
          unless you can get it

          down
          and outside in

          some kind of
          box.
                     —Rae Armantrout

For heaven’s sake, our
Lady’s called
It, and quite at
Pin
Point!
Everyone can agree, so
Down to it, shall we? Let’s get

Petty with our pottery, our poops, our pity-parties and,
Oh, our pumas and pompons. The entire
Lot of it! This
Year’s mostest-
Hearted is already an
Erstwhile
Death-on-arrival, am I
Right?
Of course, I am.
Now, what to do about it?

(Oh, come on,
Us! We
Tight-lipped,
-
Overly tarty
Faux pas in waiting gotta
-
Dance just like all the
’Oity t
’Oity types, am I
Right? (Once again, I am!) And that about
S)ums it up from me. Over & out.

mmmcdxxv

Excoriated
(I could still try XXX—if it’s even a thing?)

Except somehow there seems to need to be a
XXX or overextension or to at least have been an ex
Cerpt (in any context) simply in
Order to arrive at the anti-
Rave. Have
I even been to
A rave, I sorta wonder (knowing full well
That I’m always too
Excluded to’ve been given a map by which to amble or
Drive in order to even arrive at one of those)?

mmmcdxxiv

Cow Pie

Cows are
Over the moon
With their

Pies these days.
It’s true. They’re
Everywhere!

mmmcdxxiii

Gratitude

Friends, I am
Underwhelmed!
Can you
Know

True
Happiness? This
Arrogant fool suspects
Not. His head swirls in excess to
Know the truth, though.  And
Sometimes, occasionally, a
Gift comes
In the guise of an ominous
Vessel, and sometimes that oversized horse’s mouth, well,
It deserves a big, fat foot in the equine
Noggin’ if you ask this (and, rest assured, he’s more often gracious than not!)
Gringo.

mmmcdxxii

Thurlow B Cross
(and his son & grandson, in memoriam)

The winter Grandpa died,
he’d been out chopping wood
until late morning, sat first on his
recliner, got up, told Grandma Hazel where it hurt, covered his
lungs with the palm of his hand then patted his chest, moved
over to the sofa, she had run to get him some aspirin, and
when she was back in the living room, he was on the sofa, on his

Back, lifeless, a heartattack. Dad had

Cancer, lymphoma, he was 57—the age I’ll be in 3 years—it had
ravaged him, but he had seemed on the mend, went down fast in
one short week, my brother, Gary, found him face-down in the driveway, he’d
spit blood until he was completely spent, gone too soon. At 48, Gary—he and Dad shared the
same middle name, Grandpa’s, Thurlow—fell asleep in his truck one hot night, never awoke.

mmmcdxxi

MOTIVATE


MURDER!  MAYHEM!  A NIGHT AT THE

OPERA! YOU’RE LATE FOR YOUR

TELECONFERENCE!

INVECTIVE!

VICTORY IS NIGH!

ALL HANDS ON DECK!

TIME’S A’WASTIN’!

EXCLAMATION POINT!

mmmcdxx

FREEDOM (a draft)

Friday night, it's late, and I'm
Ready for a job (hi,
Everyone,
Did you think, perhaps, that I would say “weekend”
Or, 

Maybe, “a drink” . . .?)

(although a

drink would be nice, sure, but
rather, to be employed . . .
and to have the
financial wherewithal
t) (o show for it...) (what a dream!) (Oof!)

mmmcdxix

you are my sunshine

yes to rainbows!
outtasite! (rad!)
u & me!

ain’t that the truth!
rad! (outtasite!)
elvis lives. enjoy every moment.

me &
you!

sweet dreams. super-duper (soopah-doopah)!
under the moon. to the moon. on the moon.
not a
second goes by that i don’t think of you.
heaven must have sent you. hey good lookin’.
i’m all aswoon, over the moon.
never a dull moment (nope, not even one).
everybody dance now!

mmmcdxviii

faraway tangerine

     A photograph is a dead skin you shimmy out of.
                                                              —Sarah Fran Wisby

  frame this. the tart green bum of
  a pear in the foreground focus; pink, just
  ripe honeycrisp apples scattered
  among or against a blur of orange—
  wraithlike tangerines
  as it turns out—a conspicuous distance away, last
  year, the year before, i forget?

  take
  another look
  next year and it’s
  going to be the same.
  every year, in fact, the fruit stay just as
  ripe, the color, the harmony, what one imagines the taste
  is or was, everything about the sanguine sight remains
) notwithstanding the various joys and tragedies befalling
  each ongoing spectator (

mmmcdxvii

anything for which to be thankful

lollipop, lollipop,
oh, lolli, lolli, lolli . . .
not just
everyone has an anyone . . .
lollipop, lollipop, pop!
yeah!

mmmcdxvi

i have something exciting to tell you

here’s
a little something to get
very
excited

about. please take
note:

i was going to tell you all...ah...it’s
nothing, really.
today, like
every day, i
rose from my broken bed
very much myself.
i had a bowl of breakfast. or
else i
whistled, yes, whistled

to the tune of waking up. i’m
out to lunch, aren’t i?
darn it, yes i am!
anyway,
you all have a nice day
!

mmmcdxv

dear ugh,

jeez louise, do i feel
overworked, exhausted!
but i don't even have a job!

how horrible it is to be
unemployed again, doing
nothing day in and day out except
ticking off open positions for which
i've sent letters of interest, resumes, etc.!
no money in either pocket. i
guess i really am a poet.

mmmcdxiv

BIF Arcana

build back better?
is that where i find myself tonight,
politics? well, i’m
always trying new things:
rutabaga, rutabaga, rutabaga;
testing, one, two, three.
if i say first thought best thought
should i stick to my guns? will there be live
ammunition? what an ungodly
nation, am

i right?
night
falls over
riverdale.
archie and jughead twiddle their thumbs.
“sometimes politics
trips me out,” archie says, adding, “not to be
rude, but you just wouldn’t
understand.” (archie was bred for politics, you see)
“correctamundo,” says jughead, “now let’s
tweet about it in our
undies until the cows come home.”
riverdale’s like that, thinks
everyone except

betty, who
is thinking about
love.
love and scuba diving, that is.

plus, she thinks for a minute about
archie; more precisely: “i wonder what
sex would be like with archie.”
“shut up!
ew!”
says the veronica in her head.

mmmcdxiii

poem

peel
off
every
mask.

mmmcdxii

grace and frankie

grace
reeks of
alcohol,
cannot
even manage to

amble down to the beach.
not to be out
done,

frankie
rallies by burning a stick of
amber incense.
now they’re all tied up in
knots over such an
intense
episode. [to be continued]

mmmcdxi

spontaneous homage

     There’s gonna be goth
     bathroom readings.
                —Anselm Berrigan

 templeton refused to 
 hug
 elsa after her goodbye.
 recess
 excess. their
 sex had

 gotten
 otherworldly.
 nano
 nano!
 also, she

 berated him in front of
 everyone. but before things
 
 got so
 out of hand,
 there had been tons of
 hugs. oodles of them.

 because,
 abracadabra,
 those
 hugs, at least for Templeton,
 rocked so hard (the two became
 one and they were
 off to the
 moon), now he had to

 rewrite
 everything.
 also, he just wanted to be
 dead. but he stayed alive.
 i told him that
 nothing ever
 goes exactly the way we want it to.
“same here,” he said.

mmmcdx

tongue-in-cheeky

isn’t it always
nice to
see
everyone so
confidently running around in just their
undergarments (if that), so
ribaldly, here
in the locker room of
this
ymca?

mmmcdix

                     (also/always:) 

del is short for delusional

please,
are you
ready yet?
are we
not
ourselves?
i certainly 

am.