mmmdccclxxiv

Furry Mobile

the artist who
had been mak

                       ing them (we
                       didn’t know that

for sure) had
been placing

                       them on the lower
                       branches of trees

or sneaking
them up onto

                       the edges of the
                       sloping architecture

of people’s
homes or on

                       some of the neigh
                       borhood’s taller

mailboxes and
one time one

                       was hung from the
                       community’s singular

stoplight they
had all been

                       made of what seemed
                       like pieces of cut glass

that had been
assembled by

                       rotating wires and some
                       of us thought the swirl

ing twirling pieces
were all somehow

                       electric and when any
                       of us looked up on a

sunny morning our
eyes would be hit

                       by the shimmering
                       lights we thought

electric which
would momentarily

                       blind us and when
                       we could finally see

the swirling glass
moving after being

                       blinded momentarily
                       (during that time we

would each hear
the music of the

                       pieces tinkling
                       as if a music box

with a familiar
tune that we

                       could almost make
                       out, almost find the

words to, some
childhood nursery

                       rhyme sung to warn
                       us about bridges falling

or creatures that
would kidnap us

                       if we went too deeply into
                       the forest or faraway places

where everything
was crooked and in

                       threes, like billy goats or
                       bears or beds or pigs with

houses made of
different materials

                       creating different textures
                       these materials, each house

more fragile or
less fragile if you

                       were lucky or had fore
                       thought) but then one

day some boys
found one dangling

                       from just beneath the
                       bridge (the only entrance

or exit into the
idyllic community)

                       that swirled and twirled
                       but did not shimmer nor

tinkle and one of
the boys said it

                       stunk like a barn and
                       the one fire truck and

the sheriff’s car
could soon be

                       seen with their en
                       circling lights and

they stayed there
until at least dusk

                       and the mayor called
                       a meeting and put out

a proclamation
or a warning and

                       nobody was talking
                       anymore about how

beautiful they
were or how

                       they were works
                       of art anymore and

people were
mostly just

                       silent and serious
                       like winter after the

first big snow
only it was still

                       summer and the
                       world was suddenly

full of more
questions

                       than answers and
                       the kids would fall

asleep in class
and complain

                       of headaches once
                       school started that

year and this went on
for quite some time.

mmmdccclxxiii

Harebraining

     ...and so I globalize.
               —Kim Hyun

dim the candy lights
your eye-pools so cool

i want to suck them like
lollipops without turning

horror this morning
which it still is

when i told you the day
felt like a series of spoons

and rambled on with
a bunch more soothing

ideas—

and then i say drop by
and then you say okay

so many hundreds
of thousands of miles away

mmmdccclxxii

Oops. Sorry. Poetry.

     ...and so I verbalize.
               —Kim Hyun

if i’m not around
i can’t be bothering
you. i do hope that
i am not a bother.

three episodes later
and i’m wondering:
interviewer? or
interviewee? there

doesn’t seem to be
a lot of yippees. this
could be because i
don’t bother being

a bother. these days
i am a slave to peanut
butter as i read burning
questions to my laptop

in bed. is that what
my fortune cookie
said? i’m pretty sure
i’ll be unable to ignore

cardi b henceforth. she
is quite short, standing
next to david letterman
as the story unfolds of

how this rapper was so
randomly unwrapped.
not all things are random.
and rapping can be rap

turous. take bob the
drag queen’s new ep.
no joke, it’s a whole
new level. and so

go dave and cardi
through the gardens
of the property at
which was born our

late president, franklin
delano roosevelt.
and this is presidents
day. in ukraine.

mmmdccclxxi

Love in a Biscuit

     Mister, I’m on my way to silence. Can you
     let me have a sip of words?
                                              —Kim Hyun

wasn’t what i was
looking for in there.
pretty much anything sweet
would’ve been fine by me.

love is a biscuit and now
we are go-kart racing with
billie eilish, etc.  how do i
find the sweet that is in me?

artificial sweetener.  which i
began using to make coffee
more eternal around the time
i moved to san francisco.

saccharine: excessively sweet
or sentimental.  i’m from the
south, so of course. but let’s
do it without the actual sugar,

i thought, remembering dad
holding a spoon of his first,
second, third, etc., glazed
ceramic cup (this was before

the overkill of bulky mugs),
almost daintily, but holding
a spoon as a sort of upside-
down umbrella over the mouth

of the coffee/teacup in one hand
while the other held the bottom
of the sugar dispenser, butt up,
with a sheer white pour that lasted

what seemed like a minute.  the
spoon never moved, really, just
overfilled with the white granules
until an oval shaped wall of sweet

began to cascade down into the
cup from the rim of the spoon.
this goes on for some time.  then,
finally, the sugar is rightside-up,

back on the table in front of his
saucer, maybe one swivel with
thumb and forefinger to tip the
rest of the sweet stuff out of

the spoon and into the cup,
which would now be seemingly
half-filled with sugar. then the
coffee that was poured over with

granules was topped generously
with whole milk, and the spoon
during this phase of the ritual or
performance would be stirring the

goop nonstop into a syrupy liquid.
and in no time flat the cup would
be slurped all but dry (with a few
dregs of the toast he’d sop into

the slurry for good measure),
so that he’d be back again at
‘measuring’ out the teaspoons
of cascading sugar, starting the

process over again.  whether
by genetics of by virtue of
growing up in the south,
my tongue wants things

just as sweet, but dad was
diagnosed with diabetes a
few years before his early
passing, and mom was

diagnosed well before that
and sits for dialysis three
times a week, so i suppose
when i started using the

artificial sweetener some
twenty years ago i was
doing so with a glimpse of
that—of this—potential future,

even though by then i
had yet to even be told
that i was even pre-diabetic.
hence the splenda, which

still does the trick for me
and my saccharine-seeking
tongue.  where was i going
with this?  well, the music

of billie eilish got me here,
i suppose.  and as reminiscent
and as rooted as her music is
in the melancholy of goth or

emo or whatever pop calls its
minor keys these days, she is
about as sweet as they come,
it seems to me, especially as

interviewed by david letterman,
whose snide curmudgeon has
worked its way into his entire
demeanor and yet, the longer

that gray beard grows, the
tamer and sweeter the man
gets. nowadays, the interview
streams through the airwaves

by way of my laptop, which
then gets to me, comes at me,
as more sugar poured for the
duration into my head through

my eyes and ears.  what will i use
to stir this admixture into my cynical
brain, i wonder, now that the king of
snide has become grandpa sweetheart?

the logic of portraying everyman’s
sweeter side when he once was
the singular resonant voice of
cynicism before the world even

needed it....  and so, we 

apologetically get a grip. 

on this, another day 

of sweet sorrow.

mmmdccclxx

U-Turn at Hellscape’s Border

You sent
my strongest belief
all the way to the moon
that was You
and Your druthers
You had no intention
to finish the deal
Yours was with the devil
to make me a meal
You sent me a poisonous
something or other
and into a virtual coma

You heel
You sent me a message
about how I tasted
You took the old offer
with Lucifer danced until
I was comatose comatose
mole me a ken
for You sent me a wheel
barrow filled to the brim
with Marlboro Lights
then You sent Carl to Garl
in my grandfather’s car
You sent Hedda Hopper
a red helicopter
You sent Aaron Burr
he didn’t concur
then strident with failure
the soup from the dregs
of the witch’s black cauldron
four petals of daisy
a ton of manure
You act the old man
in the stetl who sent
Harry’s mistress a sedan
full of cardigans all because
You’d given them up for lent
and what about me?
I have spent all my bills
for a whiff of Your scent
it’s obscene can’t You see that
the devil mayn’t cure
this horrid dizzies (cuz You
sucked all the bones out of
both of my ears)
oh dear You sent me a flurry of
weevils to wither my crops
which dizzied into a big crumple of whir
(oh, Lord, if I’m ever as bored as a stale maple plank
please disallow my old love the same gall
to approach such a vulnerable
peasant as me)
You’ll crawl through the dormer and
slink through the attic and down the
creaked stairwell to slaughter my kittens
I’d rather submit to a tortuous slumber
in the thick of the brambles that wave in the breeze
like the darkest Pacific down that
barely discernible path
that we used to tread
daily
Your hand soft in mine
oh You monstrous concoction
of amoral memory
You’re wearing
Your hood
and Your cape
and thank heavens my
eyes can now see through
such dapper illusions for You
are as evil as ever
conniving contriving
with my heart in Your teeth
and Your deeds none but dastardly
You made a meal 

out of me
but only to
spit me
right out
go away
go away
I shall have no more
of You
not any
not ever
til mine
eyes can but
watch as the
lid of the coffin

before me is nailed

into eternal darkness

then they’ll see all but

nothing and

my days

will be

finally

done.

mmmdccclxix

| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |

Glipizide 5mg tablets (Mfg: Apotex Corp) qd

Descovy (emtriciteabine and tenofovir alafenamide) 200mg/25mg tablets qd

Ibuprofin (NSAID) 200mg tablets tid

Metformin 500mg (Generic for Glucophage; Mfr: Aurobindo pharm) 1 tablet
     each morning and 1 tablet at night

Atorvastatin Calcium 20mg (Generic for Lipitor; Mgr: Northstar) qd

Amlodipine Besyulate 10mg (Generic for Norvasc; Mfr: Unicchem pharmac) qd

Clonazepam 1mg (Generic for Klonopin; Mfr: Teva usa) take 1 tablet by mouth
     daily as needed for severe anxiety; 20 pills must last 30 days

Talafadil Tablets, USP 5mg (do not split tablets; take the entire dose)

Trazadone (old prescription) 50mg take one tablet by mouth as needed

mmmdccclxviii

Excerpts From a Curious Handbook
Worth Considerably Less Than $1.99

Pow wow town sow.
Who do that doodoo
that you do? Hunger
begets hunger (burger)
exponentially, but before

that burger gets gone
that burger gets horny.
Or maybe it’s actually
hunger that begets the
horny. The latter fact has

been said to be the primary
cause of paranoia, which
can also beget perversion,
and exponentially. Rather
than confront the elephant

in the middle of one of your
home’s most primary room,
one must burst resolutely
from one’s closet. This will
always be such a relief. While

we are at it, we might as
well make this one long
joke about how I cannot
read my own writing.
Oh, a nonsense poem,

of course! That’s why!
(Damn right, that’s why!).
(The shift in tone seemed
dangerous, but abstract
enough?) Berceuse,

Beetlejuice, Beelzebub.
Don’t look now but it
appears he’s lost his
f(pl)ace. Oh, no!
That was not Jane

Fonda that he wadded
up and threw away
hours earlier, but the
one he’s now making
up as he goes along.

Hot dog! (What a ding
dong!) What a shame.
Anomaly upon anomaly.
He has paused for a while,
imagining he’s underwater,

petting a small octopus.
They are quirky animals
that appreciate love just
like the next guy, you
know? Sue me if you’ve

heard this one before.
Well. Scratch that. Tell
ya what, you can take me
for all that I’m worth if
you every hear it again.

mmmdccclxvii

Finding Your Fonda

I can feel Jane Fonda’s
weirdness in me. Meaning
I can relate to her fairly

omnipresent fish out of water
look these days, it seems
fairly new to me, but thinking

back, it was always there, or
maybe a bit deeper beneath the
surface usually. For two years now,

however, I’ve watched interview after
interview that she has given, obsessively —
and they have been relentless, such an

easy thing to obsess over. And they are
so rarely just one-on-one interviews.
They’re not all with Lily Tomlin, either.

It’s during these multiple interviews
that a less apparent side of this diva
of the silver screen and boob tube,

this icon of activism and feminism
and empowerment comes shining
through. I’m talking about the

way she goes about forming
friendships. When Fonda decides
she wants to get close with someone,

it is often even before she literally
meets them. She will see someone
onstage during a performance, or

in an interview on television, and
she will immediately know that this
is someone she wants to know better.

It is instantaneous, she says. And once
she has made up her mind, she will
relentlessly pursue a friendship

with that individual. She will find
a way to make it clear to the person
that she wants to know them. And

then they just cannot rid themselves
of her goal. This may be at first
annoying to the objects of affection,

but it is apparent in interactive
interview after interview that once
that bond is made, the feelings seem

wholly mutual. When within a
cadre of friends it is also clear
that she loves to play the buffoon,

to be the center of attention, to be
the butt of any and all jokes. This
act can get a bit feisty, and all

players in this game seem to
relish it with intensity, while
also managing to defend her

with sincerity and grace to the
very end. This is the characteristic
of the lovely Ms. Fonda to which I

can most especially relate. It is
quite possibly what makes her
infinitely endearing to me as

time passes and she so grace
fully ages (would that, all along,
I were doing that part so well).

This, it turns out, is a quality I
recognize so well, because it
at least used to be one in me,

one in which I’d exercise
unswayingly, sometimes even
to the seeming detriment of my

already well-polished and oft-
present group of close friends.
Like her, I was drawn to folks

who liked to stir up trouble,
so to speak. Who loved to
shake things up or, as some

might call it, make things
interesting. As I sit here,
smiling, however, I cannot

somehow jealously wonder
how significant a part this
quirk that we share played

in the complete obliteration
of my so carefully sought out
and built-up and nurtured and

finessed group of friends. That
seemingly lovely group who
meant the world to me would

always be around, participating
in the great adventure of life,
and then, in what at this date

seems like instantaneously,
a mere split-second, say,
they were all completely gone,

dispersed, most never to be
seen since. It seems so odd
to repeat but it’s a mystery

that every day since has
befuddled me, and remains
my biggest woe and the

worst nightmare of my
existence thus far. And I
am not being hyperbolic

in the least. That the
presence of this group
of individuals gave me

such joy, and such reason
to wake up to each morning
now has me wanting to dig

deeper into what I see in
Jane Fonda as this grand
similarity between little

me and internationally
treasured her. But it
becomes a huge

difference, as I watch her
talk about how her
“sisters” are those whom

she says will always have her
back, will be at her side until
the end. So it would seem that

what feels like a very similar
quality that Jane and I share, in
reality, I suppose, I just do not

possess. Something about who

I am, whatever it is that is the
cornerstone to my everything,

is flawed. Whereas Jane seems
perfect in every way in this depart
ment. Which has me thinking a

thing I do all too often: should I
ever attempt to rebuild myself
a new family like this? Or should

I just give up on that notion?
There are moments when I
see signs that give me hope

for rebuilding such a group,
and I think what a good thing
it might be to give my all to such

an activity again so that I can
do it better than before and
enjoy the fruits of such labors.

However, it does seem to be
an exhausting project to once
again begin, does not seem to

happen organically at my age.

What happened when I thought
once, and for so very long, that

I had really succeeded in such
an ideal undertaking. But I
continue to open my eyes wide

for those positive signs and will 

perhaps make my Jane Fonda 

moves should signs brighten, 

even in the slightest, for what

to me is a duration of any 

real significance.

mmmdccclxvi

Epiphanies to Some
Revelations to Others
Gossip to a Few Lucky Ones

Well, okay, I would add
mere practicalities for me.
Just to potentially hyper
bolize the gossip. Beware
of bleeding ear syndrome
(and the unexpected arr
ival of a fleet of firefighters,

one of which tells me “You’ve
got blood on your ear!” I know,
I say. It’s a shaving accident.
He says these things happen.
But one must admit, or at least
I will, that an ear is the second
or third most disturbing portion

of a body to discover bleeding
profusely. Things that are
mangled and/or bloody. Is
that today’s topic? Nope. I
am looking to you, however.
Might I be so bold as to ask
from within these stanzas what

YOU would deem your two most
precious body parts? Please reply
to delraycross@shampoo-poetry.com.
The story of the hyphen between
“shampoo” and “poetry” is off-
subject a wee bit, but not the
original question, please do not

forget. Anybody? Anybody?
Encouragement to give your
guesses (no guess will be
judged - scratch that - it is
2023, I will stay with the times,
any answer will be duly judged.
What are opinions for, anyway?

There was some chicken scratch
in this general vicinity of the draft
of this piece in which I offered
the option of anonymous answers
and then mentioned the notion
that celebrities have a less
difficult time at anonymity

than most folks because of the
financial means at their
disposal to come up with ways
to remain anonymous (ironic, isn’t
it?). And thenafter those meanderings
I go on to say let’s not make

a bitter diatribe but rather
an adherance to steadfast
observation - scientific, if
you will; statistically prov
able observation. Now,
let’s get back to the blessed
body. What do YOU do when

you discover a skin flap (on
yourself; on someone else,
which could be someone
you love, someone with
whom you are very close,
or a stranger, a mere
acquaintance)? What

do you do when you
witness someone
sitting across from
you who has some
thing clearly stuck
between their
teeth (answer again

separately for the
same 5 types of folks
with whom you may
encounter this event)?
What do you think of
Paul Rudd (be specific
and elabarate)? As a

quick reminder, don’t
forget the email address
noted above to relay these
answers. (Bonus points for
any comments about the
website to which the URL
in the email address leads.

Also, a tally of metaphoric
hands from whom the
answer would be “I do
not know from this so-
called SHAMPOO” - this
would be more a meta
phorical pole vault.) Here’s

a query: Men, how do you
groom your balls? I’m
looking for best practices
here, along with any tricks
of the trade, innovation or
creativy in your various
processes. When about to

read a poem, what are your
general first thoughts? On
those times when you have
finished one, or in the future
when you do finish one, are
there any revelatory thoughts
of a profound nature that you

would be willing to share with
me? Let’s say you shave your
face and there are left afterwards
a number of spots of blood that
give your face the appearance
that it has a bunch of red freckles.
Out of my abundance of curiosity,

what do you do next? What do
you think of interactive art? Of
collaborative poetry? Do you know
of any interesting examples about
which you could enlighten me?
What are your thoughts on what
appears to be male-shaved chests?

What about the ones who appear
quite unkempt, like lawns unmown,
for years? What about that pretend
“I’ve let it all go look,” which has gone
through a very elaborate and elongated
time in which it has been groomed just
for that effect? How about some topical

entities. Let’s get red-faced. How do you
feel about Donald Trump? About Joe Biden?
That was cheap. I’m sorry. These are things
that are on my mind constantly, however. How
about slide projections of old. Remember slide
carousels? The process of putting old school
presentations together (the antithesis of Power

Point, I’d say)? That thought, for whatever
reason, keeps whizzing past me. What do
you think of baldness? Of realative hairless
ness? Do you wear underwear, in general?
Do you prefer poses or candid photographs?
Do you like graffiti? What do you consider
ephemera? Where do you think you might

find a gay bakery? What social media do
you use? Who are your favorite broadcast
news journalists? What is the best improve
ment you can imagine happening to life as you
presently experience it. Aside from a bit more
social engagement and a bit more confidence
and a job and lack of occasional paranoia that

swirls pretty consistently around those subjects,
and a few additional items of proximity, I think
I’m happy as clams and soon to be happier,
Though I doubt clams are really that happy.
What do you think about clams and happiness?
Now that you’ve gotten this far, do you think you
might indulge me with responses? Thanks in

advance for indulging by sending your responses to me
at delraycross@shampoo-poetry.com. Have an awesome day.

mmmdccclxv

Stress

     I have a canoe that gives me therapy my insurance won’t cover.

                                                                                               —Chen Chen

Some of my most stress-ridden moments have occurred during therapy.

One thing about being homeless in California is the amazing medical insurance.

It pays for everything in that area, pretty much, and was the only perk to being homeless.

At least that I can think of. And I can’t think of much during that period.

Because there’s a thing called trauma and a thing called PTSD. These can affect memory.

And when one has as lousy a memory as mine, almost anything can eliminate it.

Or hide it, as the case may be.  Which is why I write.

I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I found msyelf overwelmed with joy
or some other emotion (sometimes not a favorable one) upon reading something I

wrote that had me remembering.

I do not think of this as a problem. What I think of as a problem is forgetting

things, whether inadvertantly, intentionally or in some darker subconscious

manner.

I could elaborate on why I believe remembering/memory is so relevant, but won’t

at the moment.  I will mention, though, that I discuss this at length quite often in

this very poetry project.

Granted, there are getting close to being 3,900 poems in this project, so there is

always the chance that you’d have to pilfer through a bunch of poems that would

potentially not be to your liking before getting to the ones about why I think

memory so important.

But what if the more you read them, the more you enjoyed them. Not likely, but,

still.

Why would YOU want to know why I find memory so important, anyway?

I have had a few stressful extended moments whilst canoeing, as well.

Please notice that I have not dicscounted the potential positive benefits one might

get from canoeing or therapy.

That last sentence sounded like a disclaimer, and indeed was one. Did that come

about because I’ve been thinking a lot about lawsuits?

I wonder why I might be thinking a lot about lawsuits lately.

I’m just kidding. Almost joking. I know why I’ve been thinking a lot about lawsuits

lately.

In an effort at some engagement of late, I've been asking direct questions to any

potential readers, should there be any. Although I realize it’s a poetry device that

is used on occasion without the author or anyone else involved, fictional or real,

expecting to get a response.

Nevertheless, I’ll note here that it’s not that I expect a response, because I don't.

It's just that I would like to have a few responses to my direct questions to the

folks who may be reading these poems, should there ever be a soul or two

reading them.

This poem has been a send-up or an homage to Chen Chen, whose latest book I

have just begun reading.

That book is entitled Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency.

I have a small, coffin-shaped apartment that offers me extensive therapy that is

not paid by any insurance.

I am soon to move out of this home, for which I am grateful, having lived here for

over four years now.

That prospect makes me very giddy and to that I say the sooner the better.

True or False: Therapy is a digging oneself out of situations that we either brought

upon ourselves or the circumstances arose unexpectedly in such ways that the

fault(s) cannot be attributed to us or else they exist due to some combination of

both.

mmmdccclxiv

Things Not Mentioned

     He says his mother has a couple of months.
                                           —Chen Chen

So I wind up, and quickly,
talking about anything and

everything. It’s a thing I do
that ingratiates me with a

stranger or two. I don’t do
this with strangers very

often. Nowadays, strangers
are all I have. “Including my

self,” he said. “So you like
talking anything and every

thing with almost anyone,
even the occasional stranger?”

I couldn’t open my mouth,
thinking this must sound a

bit like therapy. This isn’t
therapy. I don’t like to talk

much. “That’s the craziest
thing I ever did hear, dear.”

He is just the coolest thing
ever. Like a computer, I can

feel the whoosh of my thoughts
as they go through the massive

bundle of stuff I, myself, would
rather ignore. For now. Maybe

forever. Which, as it turns out,
seems like a very, very small

amount of time. Time was
when thoughts did not go

about whooshing. Slide
shows that zip through

the carousel, giving the
audience but a mere

glimpse of most every
slide. What each must

wonder when they go
so swiftly through my

memories. His precious
pressured speech got all

clogged up. Time was
a square wheel. “Oh,

to be young again!”
he thought, and then

he collapsed into a
crumple onto the floor

where he now lays. Just
on the other side of that 

great big orange sofa.
[The lights dim to dark.]

mmmdccclxiii

Can We Do This?

     We were reading to ourselves. Sometimes to others.
                                                     —John Ahsbery

A little self-aggrandizement.
A shaker full of poetry for
your pommes frites?

Ah, heck, I’ve been
doing this for decades.
When is an elder old

enough to whom one
younger should defer?
Never, of course (a horse

is a horse). I have yet to
understand what type of
validation this would be --

everything I do is (for) a
validation of some sort.
Would you be amenable

with variations by hue?
by flavor? by genus or
species? Given that the

poet, otherwise known as
a carney or a witch (did
the Sirens rhyme?), is

poetical, let the usses
do the voodoo that who
do. Let’s imagine for

whimsy’s sake that
we are not all (wink,
wink) witty wordsters.

Some of us may be
normal. I say that we
let a layperson decide.

I myself am from
Tuscaloosa. And
what do we say

down in Tuscaloosa?
We say it’s all about
career path. We got

that from Mentors
for Dummies. Wasn’t
this supposed to be

an advertisement,
both meta and
metaphorical,

about a new
side gig. I
hear it might

be related to me,
to this here, to
all of this nonsense.

Side gigs are
helping the
economy and

they’re an ex
cellent way to
make an extra buck.

Decide what?

We Can’t Do This?

mmmdccclxii

The Love Songs of General George Custerflunk

I’m of a mind to make a fist
and I a lowly pacifist.
My mind is such a
fluffernutter.

mmmdccclxi

Ears of Corn
(“What a Racy Mouth!”)

That was fun! I
do appreciate your
seeing right through
me while hearing me

out. Thank you so
very much! Okay,
so, now I shall
shut up for

a few moments.
I’m not in any
hurry. I vent
you vent, right?

Your turn.
. . . . Your turn...

mmmdccclx

Thoroughbred

     Yet, you were “splendid.”
     You have answered every question.
                              —John Ashbery

Would that answering each query
lobbed at me meant getting each
“correct.” I’d rather appreciate
keeping my artistic distance this

evening. Any objections? I heard
none (someone shouted “Liar!”), but
I’m not listening [cupping hands over
ears making noises as if could not at

all communicate, even if tried]. Oh,
sorry, company’s arrived. And I’m
exhausted (would that there were a
sofa into which I might resolutely sink).

I woke up this morning in a panic, put
on the top half of a suit, logged in just
in time for what turned out to be an
old school phone call. Somehow, it

appeared that I’d caught up with myself.
Come to think of it, that was yesterday.

mmmdccclix

An Articulate Arthritic

     If I were you I’d get an unlisted number
     then think about growing up, just a little.
                                       —John Ashbery

We all make presumptions. Sometimes
it’s presumptuous not to. At this point,
a total stranger, and hopefully not, but
quite possibly, the person known more
than just rhetorically as your emergency

contact, twists his spine, inverts his fingers,
stretches his legs out absolutely horizontal to
the floor, bobbles his head a bit in preparation
for a jerk to the left and a jerk to the right,
each jerk has his face ninety degrees at odds

with his pre-twisted spine, all to the hoopla
of a six year old attacking a slab of bubble
wrap that fits atop the entire living room
floor. Pop-poppity-pops that cruise swiftly
into a flourish of rattatat-tats and then into

a crescendo of rolled r’s that last about as
long as the movie credits. Oh, him? He’s
not a bad habit fomenting at the tip of your
tongue. Nah. He’s that frothing case of
human rabies that sweeps you off your feet,

and then deposits you in the gutter during the
splendor of a springtime storm. And the thunder
claps make way for that particular downpour
of what he likes to call “nutcracking hail-balls.”

mmmdccclviii

Problematic Banana

     What you see and what you hear depends
     a great deal on where you are standing. It
     also depends on what sort of person you are.
                                                —C.S. Lewis

The boyfriend with the lisp (that’s me!)
gets asked by the dairy queen to say
slushy seven times without taking a
breath. The joke about how Noah’s

arc was more of a ninety degree angle.
She smells sequels by the sherbet stand.
But which flavor? Of all the sorbets in all
of the soirees,,,, If you’re vanilla (like me!)

you tend to go the route that’s most universally
recognized as correct. Obsessive compulsive
disorders, I’ve known a few, but the anal-retent
ive pilferers take the cake. The fruitcake. So

what if I am the only person in the universe that I
have even partially come to know. I spend my holidays
getting to know Carmen Miranda’s dirty little secret and
the bruised yellow laundry unfolds a pleasant memory.

mmmdccclvii

The Complicated Gimmick

How would you like to be two places
at once? To exist simultaneously, say,

at two points on the vector of a life?
What do you call a person who never

gets bored with themself? Ease over
into the nonsensical and say that again.

Warble it. What, no utterances what
soever? Now we’re talking. The subject

at hand was very handsy. We should
all be so lucky. Elvis Costello singing

“Every day. Every day. Every day I
write the book.” Those charges were

pre-nuptial, which says nothing of
their relevance now, nor ever. He’s

in such hot water that he’s hopscotching
to Lollipop. Insert finger in mouth and

wait for the appropriate time to flip out
your POP! The tarts at the top of the

charts, these days. Whatever age it is
when we begin to think such ridiculous

things. So what if it has a good beat
and you can dance to it? That’s when

I reach my limit. The gimmick, he
supposes, is not so very complicated.

mmmdccclvi

Nor Triumph Nor Resounding Tragedy

She did not want to think
of her.  But it was February.
And truth be told, she was quite
used to being about this sad.

The old tree looked as if this
time would be the time that it
would finally give in, bent as it
was so parallel to the very ground

from which it had with such fragility
sprung those several dozen years 

ago.  Do not stare at the darkness, 

into its cursed, unholy face, was what

each lingering leaf held on to tell
the world around it, those left that
held on for dear life as the wind
worked endlessly at separation

and inevitable splintering of every
thing that got into its way, with its
corrupt torrential breath, which
was a screaming movement that,

as always, made its way right
up and to the cabin door, and for
hours of that foul night it would
lick and bite at it with such a

harried fuss that the door would all 

but certainly give in to all the fiend

ish howl of wound-inflicting wind, to
leave a gaping hole from which the

home could then breathily consume
all those who dreamt that they
were safe, tucked tightly into
beds; surely by morning they’d

each and all be dead, having given
hours hence their last thanks with
out even a chanced farewell.  But just
before they arose, the storm had

made its way into the next property,
in hopes of catching it a little easier
to overwhelm and then destroy.  So
there she was again, her butt upon the

bed next to the creek so that each of her 

toes would feel the ripple and swirl of

the fast-risen whoosh of water that
was somehow held as it moved wetly

west.  All of those horrid thoughts were
swimming so frenetically about inside
her head that she had nearly found
her dreams again before she felt a

little tug and she, a bit startled,
looked up and out to see the red-
snubbed cork go hellzapoppin’ for

a moment and then slip distinctly

down and out of sight such that
her bamboo cane bent into
such an arc that she was all
but certain that it was about to

snap in two.  But tragedy lost to

triumph once again, just like it
apparently had last night.  Soon,
just before the whiskered cat that

had been filleted and sliced just 

so went a-sizzle on the grill it 

would be hung upon the scales 

kept in her father’s barn.  As things

turned out she’d been hung the
same way, weight to the ounce, one
miraculous morning long ago, yet 

as godforsaken as today, when all

the remnants of torture had laid
the land bare.  That was the night
she lost her mother.  She brought
the cool raw fingers of the fish out

to her dad and watched him crack
a bit of a grin as he lay each one
down upon the grill on this fog-
ridden morning full of the promise

of upcoming torment and disarray.
They fed without thinking, this
but mostly contented family.
It was to be another damp and

intermittently gleaming day.
A time for work and the dis
pensation of unpleasant think
ing. And that she surely did.

mmmdccclv

Zapped Synapses
(I Think the Word
Is Sapped) (Hmm)

I’m hungry. Not starving.
There’s always a silver lining.
But there is a problem. I can’t
figure out whether that means

I need to eat food or I need to
eat you. I wanna say metaphoric
ally, but (butt)? So here’s the deal:
there are these three boxes of

different kinds of macaroni & cheese
on my desk. But I need butter. So
I’ll go get some butter. My god, butt
er is expensive. But I figure that this

should at least begin to solve the important
dilemma about satisfying my hunger. Except

mmmdcccliv

Chips

I’ve had a few chips on
my shoulders over the
years, but I have never
really had any stifling

issues with authority (pol
itics aside). Perhaps this is
in no small part due to a
few aspects of my childhood:

e.g., having a stern (dominat
ing) cop for a father, a Baptist
upbringing in the rural South,
was too often accused of being

teacher’s pet, I’m a Gemini, etc.)?
But I do seem to have a few prob
lems following the rules or adher
ing to basic social structures.

Often one to buck the system
or look at common things in
such ways that those around
me never quite seem to get.

But who knows, really? What’s
more interesting to me are
these conflicting ways of
existing – authority: fine;

rules: not so fine. Who’s to say
why I am the way that I am?
It could have gone either way,
I suppose. Not all such discrep

ancies can just be glossed over
and excused by the fact that,
say, I’m a Gemini, surely? But
wouldn’t it be nice if they could?

mmmdcccliii

Things Are Looking Up

I have it on authority
that things are looking
up. For me. Well, the
vector is definitely in

positive territory, with
the numbers growing
(I’m halfway through
my fifty-fifth year, so

there’s no arguing with
that, no negotiating
with it, either). So I
guess that’s pretty good

authority. Things are
certainly looking up.
What else might be
coming my way? I won

der. I’ve no real way of
ascertaining, try as I might
to brighten my own horizon.
And so...I keep looking up.

mmmdccclii

Painful Outlook

I have it on authority
there are members of
the family addicted to
the opioid crisis. Well

tequila. An ardent re
spite from the sanitor
ium. Are black widows
the ones with the red

hourglass? Or is it a
violin? The ones with
abusive dispositions
stepped forward.

Liquid nicotine. Red
Man with Juicy Fruit.

mmmdcccli

Exigencies

He has a snappy way
of talking about death.
“Had,” came a correction
intent on bringing us all

back into the moment.
Or healing it while all
owing for the feeling
of it. The security team

held rigid. Some could
barely make out the herd
that lumbered across Para
dise Road in the distance,

just beyond the blowing
snow. Elk? No, elephant.

mmmdcccl

Should We Call This an Emergency?

Stand up straight! Hands to your sides!
‘All we need now is a ten hut,’ thought

Sebastian. He was graceful, and the
eyes of several in the unit were on his

unit. Those eyes included the eyes of
Carson, whose hands would normally

be in his pockets. ‘Alright, you sweet
potatoes!’ shouted the sergeant, who

was glowing with charge, ‘let me see
those digits.’ All present presented

all they had. Except Skeezer. But he
was half blown, had been for months,

and nobody questioned it, nor seemed
to even care. ‘Take it easy on the

manicures there Fitzhauser.’ This was
a game that would go on all morning.

When Carson’s section was dismissed,
he slowly put his hands deep into his

pockets and stood for a minute in the
spot he’d been for what seemed like

hours by now. Then he swiveled as
slow a swivel as his tronic boots

allowed, until he was 180, then
with the slightly fizzly and upper

registered ‘whoosh!’ Sebastian
watched his backside as his body

rose a bit above the dust, and he
didn’t unlock his focus until Carson

had disappeared in the distance,
which was quite a while, as Carson

kept his skids on a speed about that
of an old school, backwoods airport’s

long flat escalator. The one you’d see
your mother arrive on, twice a year,

never bothering to lift a foot to make
any extra speed either coming or going.

Or where you might meet your lover of
seventeen years just at the crook between

Christmas and New Year’s once every two
or three of the same seventeen. Sebastian

lifted a digit or two in salute to Carson and,
in doing so, felt the rush warm up through

his legs and hips and up into his head, which
once reached, his eyeballs did a little jittery

but relaxing little flutter. This flutter would
log the vision of Carson’s disappearing back

side, archiving it for later, just as it had every
morning for nearly two and a half years. ‘Tuck

your pants in, rookie!’ came the Sergeant,
glaring Sebastian down, or perhaps the more

appropriate way to describe the look was that
he was screwing holes right through him.

Sebastian just winked at him and curled up
his hands into little fists like a kid ready to eat.

mmmdcccxlix

He’s But a Whimper of Who He Once Was

“We’re working our way up to number one
in Billboard’s list of ‘The Ten Greatest Fears

of All Time.’ It’s a hot one hundred degrees
Fahrenheit out in the city today. And on a

more serious note, isn’t it a damned shame
what happened to Kasey Kasem?” And I con

cur, knowing that’s why I haven’t even gone
home for a funeral, at least not my little bro

ther’s a decade or so ago. And when Mom
goes, I’m pretty sure I’ll do the same – which

is celebrate her life in my own private way,
here in this city to which I ran away from home,

albeit circuitously, arriving over twenty-two
years ago. And, sure, I despise the family

politics and bickering and greed that shine
brightest in families around funeral times.

That’s a beacon I’d truly rather just avoid.
But is that the real reason I wouldn’t go back?

Haven’t in over a dozen years now? I did get
my siblings (well, Larry afforded his own, but

Ginger and Gary I treated) tickets to come visit
me after Gary’s first scare (or was it his second?).

That few days together, the four of us, were divine.
Just the best. A couple of years later, no less, and

Gary passed, asphyxiated in his truck after passing
out in it late one evening after he’d said he was taking

off. The story goes that he was obviously too drunk to
drive and so my Uncle (or cousin, or some relative, he

had been spending his time at Aunt Patty’s) was having
none of that, connived the keys from him as each of the

adult family members made their ways to wherever work
was with all of the kids, who were no doubt dropped off

at school. And so Gary, in the truck with no keys, rolled
up the windows, feel asleep or passed out, and was gone

by the time folks started arriving back home from their
various jobs and schools. Maybe I’ve embellished this a

bit, but the truth is, I wasn’t there, I don’t know what
happened, all I know is that he left this life, I was very

sad, knowing that one of my little brothers was gone so
soon, but also happier than ever that I had gotten us all

together in San Francisco for those few days a couple of
years previous. At that time I certainly didn’t have the

means to get back to Arkansas. That was the beginning
of what I hope I’m approaching the end of, the most

difficult years of my life, which included a surprise dis
appearance by a partner of 10 years, a long bout with a

grief so huge that it could be characterized as an overly
long illness, which was followed by a great chasm of

depression (or a continuation of the overly long illness),
an eviction, two years of homelessness, six months of

which I was working while literally living in the streets,
the other year and a half of which I lived in a total of

two shelters and, with help from a therapist, just to get
a roof over my head, a brief stint at a rehab facility be

fore finally transitioning back into the shelter (the only
one in which one might stay within nearly 24/7—except

for the one day in the month when pest control came)
I had left, thinking I had a place to stay and a job (the

job remained, the place to stay retracted their offer
when they found out I’d been evicted – and this was

an SRO – hence the necessity of living on the streets
while holding the cubicle job best I could for the duration

of its six month contract), and then, FINALLY, transitioning
into a home of my own after I had been unhoused almost

two full years, in the place where I now type this up to
toss into the wind in hopes it will get to you. I’ve been

four years here, but I should be in a better place soon.
There are plans in the works, and hopefully a domino

effect of good news that will follow after that happens.
But now I’m sitting here in a bit of limbo, a limbo in

which I’ve become so familiar, knowing how to sort of
ease time along to keep myself from going totally stir

crazy. This limbo was brought about by a sprained knee.
And is it ever painful. I only sprained it a week ago, though,

cleaning my apartment of all things. Oh, the stuff I’m leaving
out of the story which would make this sound so horribly tragic,

but indeed it’s such a normal story these days. And I’m one of
the lucky ones, thus far, which is hard for me to fathom, as the

obstacles have been so overwhelming in getting to here from
there that I find myself amazed all to often, wondering how

anyone does this, and thankful for what I do have, what I have
had, hat I will have, etc. It seems almost as if this took a wrong

turn somewhere, but actually, now that I look back up at where
we’ve been thus far, this is probably where I meant to go tonight.

And I just skimmed the surface, like I said. Because who’dbelieve
me? Because it’s just too depressing or tragic-sounding? I don’t

know for sure. This is more than I usually tell, these days. And
you’re pretty much all I have to share with at present and, well,

for quite some time now. But one thing seems finally all but
certain, and that is that my near decade in the trenches is

soon coming to a close. It refuses to go swiftly and silently,
continuing to create these annoying obstacles, even at this

late date, but I assure you, unless something so unexpected
that it doesn’t bear even being mentioned, I’m about to be

back in more familiar and more economically and socially
feasible territory again. And while I’ve always held onto

such hope, and perhaps have painted such a picture once
or twice before over the years, this time... This time....

I mean, sure, I’m a bit melancholy here by myself on a
Saturday night. And I’ve come out surely, as objective

as someone like me can be, a better person through this
hellish set of trials and ridiculousness. And I have a few

things to show for it. But just you wait. I wonder though,
who’ll be around when I do finally make my way back to

that old familiar life. Or will it be familiar? And will any of
you even recognize me? If not, it’s probably for the better.

Who’s lucky enough for such a fresh start again, anyway?