mmmmcxv

The Difference Between
Input and Output

     ...we’re here, we do stuff,
        and then we’re gone.
              —Robert Downey, Jr.

It turns out to be about death
but “not in a morose way,” he
says shortly after his dad passes.
They’d been collaborating on a
documentary together, featuring
his dad, named after him: Sr.

when I watch movies or teevee
shows, streamers, as these seem
to be called collectively at this 

moment, I come away from that
experience revivified. I somehow 

manage to maintain all of the 

big networks (or whatever we call 

them anymore), pay the monthly

fees, even as they keep going up 

and up.  They now make up, by

far, most of the tiny monthly bud
get that I have.  Sometimes I fail

to remember to watch them, tend 

not to pick up the console to turn 

on my gargantuan teevee. When I
do, I most often do it when I am

feeling down, which, these days, 

is too often. I’ve always had to 

deal with depression, ever since 

I can remember, and this particular 

fix has always been a go to. Others 

come and go – like going to the 

cinema or taking a walk through 

the streets of the city in which 

I live and love – but these days it’s 

watching a series, one of several 

I happen to be in the middle at of

at any given moment (unlike in the 

past, I now actually finish them!) or, 

on a rare occasion I watch an entire 

movie, something I used to do with 

such regularity that I’d often see
five or six a week. Now, it’s almost 

never. But I saw two today. Both of 

which I loved. One, an adaptation 

of the first half of a book I read 

several times as a too precocious 

child (Dune) and Sr. And I even

caught a couple of episodes of
a couple of the series in which

I’m currently in the middle or 

near the end. The end. Death 

sat vehemently at the fore
front of both of these films.
But I don’t feel worse than 

when I first tuned in to each? 

Resoundingly, I feel much

better. I believe I need to

remind myself to do this 

more often. The only other 

thing I can think of as an

almost sure-fire remedy
for a bout with these blues

is writing, which I’m doing 

this very moment. When I

write these pieces, I will 

invariably make a big 

production out of whether 

or not anyone is out there.

Whether you exist. I have

ego. I want to be part of a 

conversation. Of course I do. 

And, if you do, indeed, exist,

my gratitude, really. But even 

if this just goes out into vapor,

and I’m its only audience, what 

would be the problem with that? 

But if you are there, thank you, 

people of television and film. I 

really do mean that. What life 

I get from the tenacious creativity

of others. Thank you for that, too.

mmmmcxiv

Jim & I Kick It

Dualities are all the rage
in here where I supposedly
belong.  Do I seal my lips
with super glue or vent via

screams until my voice col
lapses?  I have so much to
tell you that I don’t want to.
I have so much I want to tell

you that I dare not.  This con
flict has never been a problem
for me – it’s stability.  But do I
let that be my excuse?  I talk

the ears off anyone who lets me.
Mostly they’re paid professionals
or interviewers.  But what if some
one knew me enough to really want

to listen, to hear my story, my num
erous stories, the ones I only hint at,
if at all, but never tell completely.  Am
I just too lazy?  The world is so unfair

and yet I’ve been so blessed.  If it were
going to be so unfair to me, oh how in
retrospect I’d rather it have done so
when I was young.  But maybe that’s

some pretty cheap vanity.  Deal with
it, I demand of myself. But then, how
to get perspective when I’ve no one
here who knows me well enough to

know that this wasn’t my lot, speak
ing of vanity, speaking of an over-
inflated ego.  There’s no we where
I go.  That’s the biggest difference

besides the atrocities that are so
much easier for me to see.  I
have never been one with any
desire for empathy so deep that

it drives.  Whips around these
cliff-laden California curves I
haven’t seen in nearly a decade
now.  I’m not helpless.  But I

am unable to pretend these
shackles did not bind me by
coincidence, were certainly
not mere accident.  Blame a

system or, more appropriately,
its people. No matter, what’ll
it do for me to blame?  So I
play this game, flummoxed

by this lack of inertia, this
movement that seems filmed
for me to watch as it transpires,
and in such slow motion that it

is impossible to tell whether the
gradient is an incline or a decline.
Or a recline.  Idiots who look at
the downtrodden thinking, even

saying aloud, how lazy they have
to be in order to be in such a sit
uation.  Bite your tongue off is
the situation.  Know it before

you burn it.  Maybe it’s worse to
avoid.  Pretend such things, these
people, don’t exist.  Do it before
you eschew it!  Switch places for

a day.  Or bring that thing, that
human being, to work day.  What
a holiday that would be.  A prison’s
primary purpose is to be built with

no means to escape.  Except by
those with keys.  They get to
decide.  What’s the difference
between you and me?  Who’s

got the key?  And who’s pacing
the tiny square of concrete try
ing to remember what it must
have been like to be free?

mmmmcxiii

Astride the Vertical Vector

How much paradox in
one day? I could spell
it all out for you, but
what would it matter?

The top of my game is
the bottom of this barrel.
The rock bed upon which
dead men drown is the up

per edge of the galaxy. But 

I am home. I know my place.
Like the half-rotten meal that
you’ve eaten, it has gone down

into the depths, as low as it
can go, only to rise again.

mmmmcxii

Dress for Success

One trick of course is to always
act like you know precisely
what you’re doing, and that
you know how to reach any goal.

And while that kind of con
fidence is often appealing and
‘gets you places,’ with repeated
and overarching use it creates

an impression of cockiness, which
is definitely not what we’re going
for here.  So you need to finish that
off with delicate moments of humility,

self-deprecation.  Now that’s a mix that
builds a sexy facade of success appeal.

mmmmcxi

Aural Sensation

I hear that if you laugh
at a penguin it will laugh
with you.  Years later

I tried that.  Turns out
I had it on blowhard
authority.  I guess

I was tuned in to the
wrong station.  So, as
usual, the joke’s on me.

mmmmcx

Moral Lobotomy

The oral history of
moral authority is
not a reality play.
It’s called The Yeti
Make Spaghetti in
Their Yurts.  I’ll
have a yoghurt
with that.  Get it?
Oh, the door’s right
there, see it flapping
in the polar wind?  But
I wouldn’t venture out
there if I were you,
what with all of the
spikes.  Which I don’t
worry about too much,
given how hard it is for
one to penetrate this ice.

mmmmcix

I Have It on Moral Authority

that there’s no way this light
causes skin cancer. if you
don’t believe me just
google it. but perhaps
you might should do so
over there in the shade.

mmmmcviii

Our Most Affordable...

fill in the blank because
i’m unbankable.  unless
you count, play-doh, duh!
so off we go to the shark
tank, where i’ve got a
bunch of fresh ideas.
like ponzi schemes
and cracking safes.
once i thought i
was funny.  
was brushing
my teeth.  some
where between my
ears i heard a loud
comment and the
toothpaste fell from
the sink onto the rat-
infested floor.  this
portion of the page
you’re currently
reading of the
book of my
life is brought
to you by crest.
the moral of the
oreo is that i’m not
funny after all.  never
was.  or maybe i was
but now i wasn’t.  who’s
to say?  a whole bunch
of empty space,
that’s boo hoo.

mmmmcvii

Monotony Lobotomy

Humdrum, here. I just
took Monotony to see
Nurse Ratchet.  She
insisted on a lobotomy.

I don’t think she meant
me.  I left Monotony with
her.  She was quite insist
ent, though, and upon the

exchange, enormously
pleased.  I’m not sure what
to do without it.  There’s a
certain peace in repetition.

But the tingle in my head!
And the pep in my step!

mmmmcvi

I Don’t Want to Think About It

I’d rather not talk about it, either.
Just for today, can we say? You
don’t want to, either, and yet I
persist. Down the rabbit hole

I go. Depression is a set of
circumstances that swirl around
in the gut until it builds a sink
hole beneath my feet. I grew

up in tornado alley. Saw only
one, despite hours and hours
of books over head in school
hallways, being cramped into

storm cellars with relatives.
My father was in one. All he
had to hold on to was a flag
pole. He rose like a flag, he

said, a tale I heard dozens of
times, holding on for dear life.
And then it was gone. Sinkholes
are like quicksand, once you sink

you’re stuck until someone pulls
you out. This happens around
the time the nostrils are about
even with the top of the swamp-

damp soil, a mud that, if you even
try to move, you’ll find yourself
deeper and deeper within. People
lose lives. All the time. I don’t

want to talk about it. So far, I’ve
survived. So far, I have relaxed
into it, taking the time to, well,
breathe, relax, contemplate

nothing, sinking further into an
oblivion that always seems so
well-deserved at the time. I
get out. It seems like luck, but

perhaps it’s just what we do,
what we get ourselves into,
perhaps it’s inherent, a way
to survive by almost not

surviving. A day or so later
and I’m thrumming with
energy, excitement, moti
vation. Historically. But

there’s always the notion
that swirls around and
slightly above the gloom
and doom that it won’t

always be this way. This
is only something that I
have thought about re
cently. It’s not the best

lingering thought to have,
as you may well know. To
survive requires discipline
and responsibility. But it

requires more than that.
And sometimes I have less
than I need of the more
than that which is necessary.

Of that, there’s no remedy
sometimes but to wait
things out. Nevertheless,
there’s always things to

be done. To do lists that
keep one away from the
swamp. But the swamp
is inevitable. Fortunately,

I’m thus far always res
cued. Generally by my
own devices. Sometimes
by the generous of heart.

I used to have a generous
heart. Now the ticking of
my ticker feels more like
that of a stopwatch. I’ve

no idea what duration from
which it’s counting. I’m not
counting the ticks. I’m just
counting on being here a while.

mmmmcv

Rosy Noses

Hey, so I woke up late,
having stayed awake late,
or early, almost until the
sun came back up, nothing
unusual there, only did I
get anything accomplished?
Sure, yes, I now have an
interview next week, some
time either Tuesday, Wed
nesday or Thursday.  I have
recorded a couple new months
of poetry for the YouTube side-
channel of this very project.  My 

floors are clean, some laundry
(which I now do in the
sink) is clean, I have
managed to yet stay
inside, in my little
hotbox, rather than
go out and spend any
of the last money I have
this month, so that’s good,
right?  I’m concentrating
on the good stuff, accent
uating it in a perhaps hyper
bolic manner, but whatever
works to keep my mind off
the dead-end bleakness of
it all.  And nothing’s bleak.
My boyfriend is amazing,
even though he’s been
in the opposite hemi
sphere for, what, 100%
of the nearly four years
since we’ve decided we
were a couple (I will
never, ever, ever,
denigrate the notion
of a long-term relationship
as I used to – and nope, I 

refuse to believe this is karma).  So,
these are my diatribes, er, or the
attempts at mild-mannered
catch-ups, or touch-bases,
I set out to do – by the time
we’re at about here, I realize
there’s no turning back, the
sarcasm (if we’re lucky), the
pessimism, the lack of hope
is so overblown despite the
attempt to really break through
and into the many amazing poss
ibilities, the infinite radial paths
upon which I could casually stroll
or even skip my way out of this
spot and into obvious progress
and happy endings.  I look
down and all I see are my
bare legs crossed with a
pillow above and between
the laptop upon which
I’m pecking this ridiculous
ness and below them is
the blanket that acts as a
facade atop my badly bro
ken bed.  It is cooler than
it’s been in quite a while.
There’s that interview
coming up next week.

How can mentioning
and in fact repeating
this fact not resemble
a déjà vu in which we

all know the obvious
conclusion.  But
no, no, no, I’m trying
to tell you that I’m act
ually in good spirits; or
was.  Is the act of sending
you these updates the problem?
They do not help if, by design,
this is the best I can do.  That
much I know, even as I attempt
to be upbeat.  I’ve got chicken
legs in the refrigerator which
I can cook now along with some
rice, and a rice-cooker within which
to cook the rice and a skillet atop a
single electric burner upon which to
fry the chicken.  The room is relatively
clean (I’m not mentioning one fact about
it that I’m just not going to mention, besides
the broken bed, besides the fact that it’s an
SRO, and that I reside in this tiny space in the 

hood within my favorite city and cannot get into 

a new place and therefore cannot see my guy 

in the same vicinity as me until I get a job and 

move into a new place) – and defeat.  Not defeat.
Never defeat.  Defeat is death.  And I’m yet
alive.  Right now, in fact, I feel very alive,
even as I stew over all of the obstacles,
and try to calculate, based on history,
what might come next. I will get 

there. It’s mostly (mostly) silly 

for me to think of time as a
quickly ticking bomb that counts
down to an ever-swiftly nearing
zero.  Like if I had a real kitchen
and were baking something in the
oven.  The ding ding when the timer
hits zero does not mean the end of
life or the apocalypse, but that the
bread is baked, the pizza is done,
your potato is ready, etc., etc.
All good stuff.  Because I am
nothing if not hungry.

mmmmciv

Nose to the Rose

When I’ve lost all
means of slamming
my nose to the grind
stone, that’s when it
seems easiest to for
get.  Everything that
keeps my thoughts
lustrous, keeps my
focus secure.  And
when I’m barely
able to get my feet
out of bed just to
do the simplest of
necessities, much
less those things
that will elevate
me, will get me
out of the stink
in which I am
stuck, it’s really
hard to muster
such a simple
thought as
this: to get
to the grind
stone one
must go
through
the rose.
Nose to the
rose. Nose
to the rose.
Never give
in to the
pessimism
when, just
take a look
around, con
centrate on
what’s deep
within, and
put your
nose to
the rose,
Del.  Wade
through the
thorns if you
must, but
breathe in
the brew of
the blooms
and it will
get you

at least
through
this mess

and possibly
into the next.

mmmmciii

Snuffle Fluffed, or
Chicken Avenged

Quite a kerfuffle,
the sneezin’ and
wheezin’ that rings
in the ears. Been

cooped up so that
I live in a bubble.
But sometimes
that bubble’s a

bubble of bones,
not anything so
light and airy as
feathers – check

out how fine are
mine. But back
to the sputterin’
and noisy con

gestion, the hacks
and the cackles
with round about
half of the coop

filled with snotty
hens lying flat on
their backs. I
couldn’t even step

sidewise without
a spittin’ attack,
and let me tell
you that chicken

phlegm is a rotten
thing to find upon
one’s ruffled-up
feathers, yes sir,

it’s disgustin’,
there’s no way
around it. So
what am I gonna

do, I thought, as
I twisted in circles
in the noon-day
heat just to avoid

all the sick chicks?
And I kept that
routine ’cuz it’s
true, get over it,

we chicks like a
dumb routine
every now and
again, it’s a great

way for a chicken
to meditate. And
that’s when it hit
me, or after about

a hundred or so
rounds of clawing 

out circles in the
fenced-in dirt.

I’ll escape! But
how? And wouldn’t
you know it, I flapped
these gorgeous arms

of mine and without
even a skip and a jump
I started to rise. What
a bunch of lies we’ve

been fed. To think,
a chicken can actually
fly? Well, this gobbler
did. Don’t even ask

me where I think I
am at the moment.
All I can say is that
this happy bird has

done flown the coop.
And don’t you even
think I’ll be back. No
more pullets for me.

Who needs roosters
anyway. Those old
wardens can find
their eggs down at

Quail Ridge or Pea
hen Bluff or perhaps
down in the swampy
pond from those

crooked ducks. Or,
or – and this has me
gigglin’ so hard that
I’m almost cacklin’ –

for all I care they
can head down to
the other end of the
world and make peace

with an ostrich or three.
That certainly would be a
deliciously spiteful thing
to see. If you ask me.

mmmmcii

Severing Severity
(Disinterest Delays Death)

If you take yourself
too seriously you’re
a narcissist. But if

you’re not incredibly
passionate about that
thing or those things

most important you’re
a what? A lollygagger,
to put it nicely. If you

sink into an utterly sol
itary world doing that
most important thing.

Or being with it. Or
learning it by rote.
Or understanding it.

Well, then you’re a
hermit. If you’re a
hermit then you’ve

no clear idea whether
or not you’re an expert
at doing that thing or

being with that thing
that’s most important,
or you’re just a joke at it.

Raise your hand if none
of this matters to you.
Those of you with your

hands raised are no
better or worse. But
which of these ways

of being would either
of us call a lousy way
to exist; a cursed path?

Sometimes I think I

should have simply been

a stand-up comedian.

mmmmci

Divvy Democratically

“Even Stephen!”  Or is he
a Steven?  Look how each
kid hovers over their divvy.

“I made you a lunch you
can’t smack!” Tim thinks
his mom says before he

walks out the door on
his way to school.  Then,
“Hurry up, slow-pokes, or

you’ll be late for band
practice.”  She knew
neither of them played

an instrument, threw a
flag or did any percussive
click-ticking, at least with

any official objects of per
cussion.  Tim had banged
his head so hard jumping

into a bus once that he’d
woken up in a hospital bed
with a concussion.  Which,

he’d think, from time to
time, “How unfair!”  Because,
you see, he’d never been

banged up in such a way
that he’d have a permanent
souvenir, or at least one that

might last as long as a
plaster cast that could be
signed by all of the class

mates who didn’t speak
to him.  Which were all
of his classmates.  He’d

always gotten along better
with his teachers.  He’d
hear all too often the

nasally screech “Teacher’s
pet!  Teacher’s pet!”  Which,
at this point, was not a source

of pride, but an excuse to turn
red with embarrassment.  Oh,
that was his favorite.  But even

at his age, which was whatever
age fifth graders were at the time,
he had within him enough of a

kernel of empathy that he felt
a bit guilty or bad or was it
perhaps even a bit of comp

assion for his younger sibs
who, for whatever reasons
such things occur, had such

troubles within that red-
bricked institution most
people remember as where,

during the daylight hours,
their trip from post-toddler
through pubescence trans

pired.  If they remembered
anything at all.  So his kid
brothers and little sister had

their troubles in school, never
able to get the scores that
Mom or sometimes even

Dad might deign to congrat
ulate, pridefully imagining a 

son or daughter who might

grow up and, what, escape?
“Aren’t you Tim’s younger
brother (or sister)?” they’d

often be asked as homework
was returned with frowny-
faces, or worse, throughout

the day.  Or “Why can’t you
act more like your big brother?”
said before sending one of them

off to the principle.  So, in retro
spect, being teacher’s pet was
not that horrible, Tim supposed.

Rather than return home to attend
to the cows and the dogs and the
cats and the horses like his younger 

siblings would, each claiming one 

or more of the beasts as their
very own, their “pets,” Tim would

flop onto his bed, dig out the
book he’d nearly finished or per
haps had just begun, and read.

This he’d do until dinner was
called, and then back he’d go
to his bed and his book after

he had eaten, reading more,
until all of the kids were
ordered to bed (this would

occur for many years at
around eight in the evening).
But Tim, having a small pen-

light, would continue to
read after that, curled under
his covers, well into the night.

And then, usually around the
time he began to hear Johnny
Carson in the distant living

room, and his dad’s occasion
al belly laugh, he’d doze off,
jerking away momentarily

shortly thereafter just to
turn off the pen light.
He didn’t mind being

different from the rest of
the group of humans with
whom he lived, those folks 

who were, and he’d sigh as he
thought of this, blood relatives.
Sure, it was all a bit exasperating

at times.  But, all in all, he didn’t
have many complaints.  He simply
preferred his way of being over theirs.

mmmmc

The Sounded Alarm
(Am I Sound?)

Holy what!? On the
one hand, I’ve had
plenty of time to
mull over the things

going on, in and a
bout my life for the
past several years.
But on the other,

I’ve had such an ex
traordinary share
of significant and
not so happy events

that I’ve not had a
moment to really
consider what’s
been happening,

who I am, where
I’m headed, what
my purpose is. This
just suddenly hits me.

I’ve neither the time
nor the inclination to
elaborate on any of
this at the moment,

except to say, I’m
here, I’m here, and
I plan to be here for
a long time to come,

even though that
stretch of future
shrinks ridiculously
each time I’ve really

and truly had a mo
ment to actually
consider such
matters. Oh,

Goddess of Hope,
or any relevant
and real (or not)
divinity, please

hear me out, I’m
not done, I want
to stay, and I
will, I will, I will,

by whatever
authority you
might have in
the matter,

whomever I’m
sending such
uneasy thoughts
to tonight, I’ll

do my best to
make worth
while any
stretch in

said duration
that you might
be able to
accommodate.

Thank you,
thank you,
all hail,
and amen!

mmmmxcix

Men Are From Mars

“Earth to Stacy, come in
Stacy,” absurdist Earl
wanted a couple of lug
nuts, to be sure. Stacy

kept her distance, soap
ing up the dishes for a
second time, just to be
on the safe side. Earl

practically lived under
neath that console, his
primary objective there:
calling out to life on pot

ential proxy planets. “As
if!” thought Stacy, as Earl
skipped around in a bit of
a herky-jerky manner in

what used to be the living
room (“No living here,”
thought Stacy) for a
couple of spare lug nuts.

Little did Stacy know he’d
finally gotten through to
someone, to something,
and spent the rest of the

afternoon trying to ascer
tain whether they were
friend or foe. Earl always
assumed friend, figuring

that if there were foes,
if the entire population of
the beings were not already
decimated, would by now

know very well about 

earth’s by now. Stacy,

safer than ever, seeing
Earl in even more of a

tizzy than she had grown
accustomed to for the
past decade or so (“God,
and I could have married

Spencer Talbot,” she could
not help but think, as she
often did of late), went
about scrubbing and then

rinsing the dishes for a
third round, just to re
main in her own little
world. Earl had planned

to inform his wife once
he broke for a bit of a
rest, but by the time
he got to the bedroom

she was already sno
ring. That had been
shortly after midnight.
Before it was one o’

clock in the morning,
Earl would have the
misfortune of clearly
knowing which side

of the fence these
beings from outer
space belonged,
and as his body

evaporated from
their home of
twenty-nine
years of marriage,

reappearing in
a most elaborate
torture chamber
that came from

somewhere not
of his world, his
heart sunk, and
his thoughts, at

least when he
was able hence
forth to have
any, went lov

ingly to Stacy
(along with a lot
of regret), who
awoke to an

Earl-free home
at around about
seven in the morn
ing, and she went

about the day with
out giving its emp
tiness even a second
thought, until about

midnight that night,
when she broke down
in disbelief that she’d
been abandoned. Or,

rather than disbelief,
she finally believed,
knowing that Earl
was gone from this

godforsaken planet
for good. She never
washed another dish
as long as she lived.

mmmmxcviii

A Poem of No Import

a person of insignificance
may go nowhere and may
even take a very long
time getting there.

a person of interest could
be on the lam.  this trip,
too, might take some
time.  and being on the

run might significantly
elevate the interest, make
them more interesting,
or one might deduce.

a person of intellect
might be intelligent, but
of what significance would
that be to you or to me?

let’s just call that person
a nerd or a geek or maybe
a bookworm.  i find of interest
that potentially, and perhaps

significantly, books and
persons have something
in common, at least in
evitably, which is worms.

mmmmxcvii

The Loss of Youth

Look!  I found a
flower from the
distant past.
Maybe two.
Still intact.
Is it you?

mmmmxcvi

Boo Hoo!

The sweatiest of sweat;
the downiest of down.
Even when the phone
rings at 7am with what,
on the surface, would
seem like fantastic news.
The blues won’t dissipate.
These feelings tend to even
tually evaporate, but what
to do when you have to
wear them like a pair of
cloying t-shirts back in the
hot summer state of your
humid youth. What if the
only thing left is to admit
(And to whom? Oneself?
Me? What is defeat if
there’s no one to whom
you might appropriately
tell?) defeat? It’s the
hopelessness that’s
new. And what is
there to do but
(What?) hope
that, like al
ways, this,
too, will
pass.
And
fast?!

mmmmxcv

Staggering Stagnation!

which sounds quite ex
pletive and a bit like
“sufferin’ succotash!”
only i’d imagine it is
way worse. though
yosemite sam might
disagree. did he not
at least have a job?
it appears that he
sometimes did. as
a prison guard on
occasion, and at
others as a police
officer, but mostly
he was just a cantank
erous gunslinger, i’d
say. more of an out
lying outlaw, right?
(there’s a thought,
hmm...) i think of my
pacifism as some
thing of a hallmark,
but who even knows
me, especially these
days? and even those
who ever did, well,
would they even
have a clue about
my pacifism? would
they think it (another)
delusion? i won’t deny
that i must’ve surely come
across as full of contra
dictions at the very
least. but therein
somewhere lies
a value system
that harbors a
few sturdy truths.
surely? that has
to be the case, or
at least i’d argue (in
terminably, at least).
maybe this is really
just an attempt at
an elucidating ditty
on mental health
issues. i’ve been
a bit obsessed of
late with comed
ians who center
their routines so
transparently on
this subject,
like the brilliant
maria bamford,
whom i’ve spent
hours watching
this past week, and
who has basically
built her entire career,
it seems, around that
subject, as literally
wrapped within it as
she will quickly point
out that she is. i could
name numerous others
whose routines i’ve
watched excessively
as well as obsessively
over the past couple
of years or so that
gravitate toward
similar themes. like
john mulaney, whose
late work centers
on what i’d argue
is at least a sub
genre: addiction.
also carrying on
stage about such
things, often in
a rofl manner:
neal brennan, amy
schumer, chelsea
handler, etc., and
that’s just the list i
have at the forefront
of my memory to
night, but the list
goes on and on, to
the point that these
mental health issues
seem to occupy quite
a large percentage
of modern comedy
culture. what about all
of this was i getting at?
well, to bring it all
back, there are two
states of undoing
for me that seem
to bring my
motivation
to a screeching
halt, especially
when they appear
together in what
i’d call a double
whammy scenario.
they are depression
and pennilessness.
it’s not as if they
don’t already have
a codependent
relationship with
each other, as
well as a bit of
a chicken/egg
conundrum
going on, but
it’s very clear
to me that when
either, or espe
cially when both
rear their ugly
heads, there is
nothing that i can
count on more than
finding myself losing
my mojo, slowing
down to a lethargic
creep, if not shutting
down entirely. my
world becomes one
in which all i can do
is try to will the time
away until they both
go away, a counter
intuitive tack if ever
there was one, but 

i am good at it.  i
live in a swamp of
stagnation and pro
crastination. i’ve
tried seemingly
every trick in the
book (where, oh
where, could such
a book be, i do
wonder) to stave
off these derail
ments, the most
recent being a
simple and sol
emn vow to refuse 

to enter that swamp, 

to veer away, steer 

as clear from the
quicksand and
muck as i can,
and have some
how convinced
myself that this
is possible. well,
i suppose i will
very soon see
whether it is.
possible, i mean.
because i can see
those two villains
arriving as i type
these words to
send to you. if
you’re kind enough
for such simple
things, i’d be
ever so gracious
for a good vibe,
a pleasant thought
aimed in my general
direction, or even a
hushed wish of good
luck. i am ever so
appreciative. and
feel free to stay
tuned for the
next dramatic
installment that
will reveal how
i beat the odds
and revel in the
amazing results
of what a smidge

of remaining
confidence will
surely deliver
to a downtrodden
contrarian like me.

mmmmxciv

Artsy Fartsy Wedding Party

Aloysius does the dishes.
Marcia McAfferty’s looking
quite pretty. And our dear
friend Benjamin’s gotten
himself his usual, a latté
generously sprinkled with

cinnamon. Cory doesn’t
have a worry in the world
this fine morning; he walks
to work thinking of his night
with Taffeta Loring, with whom,
of late, he’s racked up a quite

generous amount of scoring.
Nothing at all seems boring
in the town of Turnbull, at
least until Ms. Trimble finds
herself slightly off-center
thanks to a mild temblor.

But she’s not fretting. For
tonight’s her wedding.
After school, like a fool,
this regular substitute
teacher and her beau,
Mr. McFletcher, who’s a

Professor at the University
of Northwestern, will head
directly to the home of their

pastor (the Reverend Astor),
and wow, in wedding
attire so stunning that

Reverend Astor’s tick,
his nervous humming
(you should catch him
when he sings, it’s quite
the thing when he’s alone
at home, his thick baritone

is syrupy slick, and with that
comes cunningly imaginative
lyrics; Astor was once con
sidered a stock but adroit
poet back in college, which,
wouldn’t you know it, was a

relatively unknown college
in Detroit, the name of which

is – oh, I forget, – ). And 

yet, you bet that I and all 

of the the cool people of Turn
bull are giddy for the spectacle

of the town’s most renowned 

wedding of the year, there’s no 

doom nor gloom here, for the 

citizens are astir as they whir
about gleefully anticipating the 

holy union of Mr. McFletcher and
Ms. Trimble. Darlene Decatur,
the Astors’ neighbor and local
interior decorator has the Rev’s
rooms so splendidly abloom that
all of Turnbull’ll remember, and

with pride and with splendor,
the soon-to-be marriage, in
the good Reverend Alister
Astor’s flawlessly decorated
living room (thematically hued
in Ms. Trimble’s favorite blues),

of Turnbull’s beloved betrothed:
the Honorable Hector McFletcher
and the inimitable Maribel Trimble.

mmmmxciii

Destination Endzone

clappy carbos had called us into
a coma. my comatose classless
colleagues compounded that con
founding condition, by causing a

curious cacophony, a chorus of
curt, wheezed-out creaks and
clinks, the chorale of our conked-
out crew. cleaving to a conscious

state i contemplated karmic excus
es and other credible causes for us
crapped-out kiddos. “of course!”
i cried, conking my cranium, which

led to a bit of inconsequential com
motion among my crumpled and
clumped-up companions. con
torted into a quivering but quiet

cackle, i came to the correct con
clusion: clearly our schoolkid
days were kaput. we’d each crept
begrudgingly beyond coming of age

cadets and into crinkled old codgers.
disconsolate, i crawled back under the
covers to coalesce with my cadre of
coots on the colder edge of the cosmos.

mmmmxcii

Living the Con

simple smiles of idiotic
gathering dust in the
foyer. yay. my schtick
today is my back hurts
and the man’s thumb
smushes me into the
ground, into a pancake
on the deteriorating floor

of my tiny, overly hot,
coffin-sized apartment.
huge goal: escape. this
goddamned hotbox. hook
up with this lovely human
being. big plans. big plans.
which is there’s only one
plan, one plan, nothing
but one goal in the whole
entire world. or else i die.
or else i hermit out the rest
of my life, which likely ends
near now, a few steps away,
no mojo, the motivation for
this one goal dissipating,
drained, like the gunk that
disappears down the sink,
and not just any old sink,
but the toilet that is the
only working toilet on
your (my) wing of this
i-can’t-in-good-conscience-
complain-about apartment
building, which is, nope,
not going to complain
about it. because goals.
because, i mean, and i’m
sorry to keep having to
remind myself, goal.
singular. one. singular
frustration. and every
little step i take toward
this goal. and let me
tell you, or don’t you
know about baby steps?
focus on my frustration,
folks. you imaginary
friends and acquaint
ances. see me to the
door. the door to my
next cubicle, oh my
god, if you even could,
if anyone could, let me
just say, i’m fine, every
body, i’ll be okay. but
only if i live. or maybe
i’ll be more okay if i die
tragically never having
reached what i would
have imagined most
of my life to be such
a simple goal. good
grief. allow me to con
you with my confidence.
let me wine you without
whinnying about winning.
i’ll pose for my post about
positivity, which i posit’ll
be in the shape of the
statue, or maybe a tiny
little copper or clay
sculpture of my
posterity. if i
live another
day. if only
it were that
one thing i
could work
toward, day
in and day
out. fuck
bureaucracy
and all of the
rest of life that
has to be lived.
dangerously.
menacingly.
i gotcha
goal. i’ll
getcha.
and when
i do, there
they’ll be,
like gigantic
bowling pins,
all of the urgent
things that must
be tackled, that
will get struck,
unless between
now and then i’m
stricken with some
thing deadly, like
death or debilitating
disease. put a lid on
it, dimwit. this is no del
usion, this is real, dude,
as for everything but
that one thing, i’m
on strike. i’ve got
one life, and only
one thing that
must be done.
after that, all
the pins will
fall in my
joyful new
universe,
down my
alley, the
way things
were supposed
to be, the world i
almost knew, it’ll
be, it’ll be, it’ll be.

mmmmxci

Missile Ready Ignition

I don’t know. How do I feel today,
as I ready for my “post cancer
surgery MRI,” which will take place
in another couple of hours?  I’ve

really started to feel the “it’s been
six months since I had surgery to re
move cancer” and begin to mull that
over in my head for, I suppose the first

time.  I had a little blip of “I have it” back
when I had it.  There was that one day of
frightening.  But everything else was such
smooth sailing, and afterwards I received

that “cancer free” “clean bill of health.”
So I doubt I’ll think much else about it

(...for now...).

mmmmxc

Because I Am Alive

Wow, I should get out
and enjoy the world.
What has been my
problem? A reversal
from extrovert to in
trovert? At home
testing does not
support that poss
ibility. But I have
been a veritable
hermit now for
approaching five
years. Nearly ten
if I count my last
years at home and
my two years with
out a home, even
though I was gen
erally more sur
rounded by people
during those years
than I have been
during the past five
since I have had my
new small apartment.
I keep to myself, except
during interviews and the
small stints I have had of
employment. I speak with
therapists, psychologists, 

recruiters, and various 

doctors and, on occasion, 

speak to the front desk 

personnel here at my 

SRO, or to the case
manager assigned to 

me here. So my ob

vious need to often
surround myself with
warm bodies, as well as
my rejuvenating penchant
for long discussions with
friends – a luxury I do not
have anymore, at least not
in proximity, for reasons that
have both unnerved me and
perplexed me now for years,
a problem which has me un
able to move either backwards,
toward those with whom I was
so well acquainted, or forwards,
to acquaint myself with new ones –
has been non-existent for so long
now that I would not even know
where to or how to begin again.
I know that I must learn how,
somehow, because this is not
my best way of being. In 

fact, that is often what I
mean when I have said for
several years now that this
is not living, or that I cannot
wait to get back to living. It
is the need to have the close
ness of people to me, people
for whom I care. I have main
tained a very few (three) close
friends, one being my mother,
so that’s family. Maybe there
are four. In either case, neither
are in the city in which I live, so
there is absolutely no face-to-face
conversations with people who know
me well. Whom I know well, also.
None of that. This has been the
obstacle, the reason that I have
continued to say that I am not
living. But the fact of the matter
is I am alive. And while it’s been
the most difficult uphill haul with
which I’ve ever had to climb, I
am still here. So what’s my
problem? There’s a shitload
left to do. Let’s get to moving!
I’m not sure who I’m yelling
at since I’m the only one here.
But I do know that it’s time
for me to crack that whip.
Get on with it. Or give up.
Those are the only choices.

mmmmlxxxix

I Am Living Now

I am thinking this
as if to remind my
self.  Am I?  Yes,

resoundingly, yes!
I often make sug
gestions, to myself

and to others, that
what I have been
doing this past few

years is not living.
Is not living at all.
And yet I am wrong.

Aren’t I?  I’m incorrect.
That is most assuredly
the reality.  That I

am living.  How
could anyone deny
this?  How do I

I deny myself the
experience of living?
Why would I? That seems

to be what I have been
doing now for several
years.  This has to stop.

mmmmlxxxviii

Ethical Issues

what was her name? the professor?
i somehow have her confused with my
high school spanish teacher, but then
it comes to me, yes, no? falls-corbett?
i’m not certain, but that is the name
that comes to me. first name peg, i
think. funny that she has bill’s last
name. bill, my editor of many years,
i had the honor and good fortune of
taking his class at mit. back when i
worked there. and then i feel the
connection. he wrote an autobio
graphy called ‘futhering my edu
cation,’ did he not? yes. so this
class i took in undergraduate
school, at hendrix college in
conway, arkansas, ‘ethical
issues’ it was called, in which
we as a class covered around
five topics throughout the tri
mester (hendrix was an eclec
tic school, with three semesters,
or ‘trimesters’ per class year, at
least back in those days; i believe
i read somewhere recently that this
is no longer the case), five topics
laden with controversy, topics that
you fell on one side of the fence or
the other, inevitably? hopefully? we
were just college students. i mean,
perhaps my classmates had much
better developed values than i did,
but, as i like to say, i was a late
bloomer, and i doubt i was firmly
on either side of the fence on any
of the issues. i can only recall two
of them, which were abortion and
the death penalty. i do know we
each had to write an essay which
clearly stated our opinion, based
on any research we did on the
subject, a coherent argument
either for or against. it turns
out that i did have a pretty
solid opinion about abortion
rights, just a basic but solid
opinion, but on the death pen
alty, i did not. but using logic,
a method of deduction that i’d
inevitably dub ‘my religion,’ i
came to the conclusion that no
one person or people should have
the power to determine whether any
person, incarcerated or not, should be 

put to death. that i remember. i’m not
sure why i am writing about this class
this morning, and of course i’ve no idea
why it came to me shortly after i awoke,
the memory of sitting in that class during
what i think was my sophomore year of
undergraduate school in arkansas. but
thinking about that class now, i believe
it to be a turning point for me. a sign
ificant transformation occurred within
me that made room for what would be
come my malleable but ever-solidifying
values. those most important issues we
face as humans, or that i face, anyway.
i was a good student before that class,
as in my grades from mid-elementary
school through graduation and on into
my first year of college hovered around
near perfect. but as for my education,
i’d say that it began with that class.
it’s been a long and winding road
ever since, but one thing has re
mained true: with an over-arching
curiosity, i have been furthering my
education ever since then, ever since
tackling those primary and relevant
issues in which there are no hard and
fast correct answers in that class entitled
‘ethical issues,’ with professor falls-corbett.
this feels like a relevant subject to have
woken up thinking about in my refreshing
ly cool apartment this morning. i wonder
what the rest of the day will bring.