mmmmclxii

The Logic of Chaos

The mess on
my desk is
mesmerizing.

A splotch of
spilt milk in
the shape of

a heart.
I’ve said
this before

and I’ll say
it again.

mmmmclxi

Handbitten Tumor with Turmeric

General Surgery, Dr. Seuss.  Is
that some sort of introductory
class or my appointment this
coming Monday?  Ah, Oncology,

geriatric sugar.  Jared meat: a
calendar, a monkey and event
planning.  We are exactly at 3
weeks before Cystmas.  For now

I’ll pretend (in the guise of a
scrunched-up loofa with inef
fable smells permeating from
its porous innards - what a

whang!).  Add Africa to grocery list.
A lot of people won’t say Cystmas.

mmmmclx

Cranial Flatulence
(more ineligible nopes)

A compendium of Dutch spon
taneity. The rest of us, ground
ed by a grackle, spent 20 weeks
on the New York Times bestseller

list: (with Extended Ovation for a
Life Wronged. This bio of damaged
goods included such quotes as “Ex
eunt the Kardashians” & “A fistful

of s’mores.” The postcard that
came with the book was his obit.)
Ashbunny’s words had been so
confused they made the whole

gleaming universe finally make
sense. The colonoscopy was rad.

mmmmclix

An Architectural Dig at Authorial Intent

The years were not easy on his words.
Yet he’d often been told that he display
ed his ache-driven heart most proudly
and prominently upon his work-bedrag

gled sleeves. He vanished from the scene
shortly after he’d won the most prestigious
trophy for his bleak portrayal as lead in the
praised adaptation of A Wolf in Sheep’s

Clothing, a mostly forgotten flick with which
once every other semester but one (and the
same) film studies professor most sternly
indoctrinated his doting but dimwitted star

gazing rookies of Introduction to Cinema
(mostly known to the students as Flix 101).

mmmmclviii

Hurthand Inktoast

do not try to open. guidance to
total encryption on the cypher.
personality is everything. or per
sonally it’s endearing? send the

order. finance wants 2 wks. put a
tickler says 3 days til approval then
after 3 days give yourself approval.
exceptional. life is what it is: extreme

ly different (defensive?) (deferred?).
to get here, step toward it. psych.
eval. grow godfather relationship.
gary picks at day strudel. goal:

do not toughen the hot mustard.
proust nirvana palmer & young.

mmmmclvii

Handwritten Hodgepodge
(more snippets from various
often illegible scribbles)

queries for yvonne. bbq for folks.
send email to the entire psychiatry
dept. mottott (?) training. also ask
margo pamer (palmer?). arnie, molly,

angela, sheila. doodle poll. friday,
d. maran & eve 25 – 9 to 10am.
word to the fishcan. i’m a bitch (la
roux). valentino & the dalai lama.

minutes. note one: i went to get
the last minutes. the doc that
talks about all of the patients’ cons.
crocodile committee? next mtg perm.

another good year. quality control.
bert of duality (?). don’t get shrimp.

mmmmclvi

Moil Eagable Handsnips

it happens depending on the
situation. i canteen be at any
tube. just me. be good. i will
pay $750 per check on the 5th.

obstacles. i repressed no stress
to get you here. a loud belief [or
relief?]. and the door notices cali
fornia (show paper), if i have been

approved and verified. the world
i’m doing so strange. after three
years what is owed or owned. no
sucking sept. 5. NOT buying, but

learning as i go. loggy porpoises [?]
of official employees, not sex slaves.

mmmmclv

More Snippets from Handwritten Notes

contact Toss Now [sic?]. THIS HAS TO
BE MONDAY. show Mona Lisa my a
mount funded. ask her what she said
as she was walking out my door. notice

on door. notice in mail. $1 on the 27th.
history of Charleston [indecipherable].
$103.04. caresses/follicles upon/the
crook of my elbow. short spare tufts/

billow across/my loose knuckles. patient
as a [?]. persistent sex. suck feather
[sic?]. you will then go off insurance. you
have to buy ticket home. why does the night

mare landscape feel so comfortable. such a
high value risk, fraught with [?]. this kiss costs.

mmmmcliv

A Few Handwritten Notes
(Mostly Illegible)  #1

current statement. receipt for rent. case
number 1409241 (see email). multiple
people involved. your brother is not you.
does he have a phone? he needs to come

here immediately. dj reyes [sic?]. makes
it a tougher quote to quote. foil arrived at
zoo (?). another quote from edmund berrigan
on indigenous peoples’ day. description of his

eyes after staring at them for 30 secs solid.
for the game we’re not really strangers (6/3).
light in darkness. if you see him comin’ tell him
nuh uh. can’t do the talks like the talk on the tv.

off-kilter snippets of joy & confusion & (flitty/
flirty) consternation. beauty beautiful eyes.

mmmmcliii

Heartbreak Incapable

He had a way with words. What a
creative genius of renown. The world
was starstruck but to be graced by
his presence, wobbly knees, anxious

titters, swooning, the incessant blind
ing flashes of paparazzi and driven fans.
And the stalkers. He had infamous
encounters with obsessed zealots.

One climbed through his window at two
in the morning with an ax that, word has
it, left scars. The posthumous biopic re
vealed him to be a miserable man; bitter,

contemptuous, devoid of heart and soul.
A complete waste, a ruse, a real nobody.

mmmmclii

Plebeian Wargames

Isn’t blindly picking sides how
we got to the edge of the apoc
alypse in the first place?  Of
course all powermongers – left,

right, somewhere in between
– vie for the lowest common
denominator.  But I’d like to think
one side refuses to simply hail

“Let’s make the dumb dumber” and
aims evenly across the mathematical
spectrum.  Oh but when those with
whom I identify go dumber, do

the lemmings ever line up to dive
from the cliffs into hell en masse.

mmmmcli

Rise and Shine

Here’s some extra space
for your pleasure. If I
could make it private,
you know I would,

right? I’m having break
fast without any food.
And I’m having it very
slowly. Lugubrious is

a look and/or a sound.
Sure, I’d say it that way.
The hack of putting pen
to paper is lesser or great

er than finger pads eras
ing letters off keyboards?

mmmmcl

Sonata of Hope

The white noise, despite my needs
or wants, refuses to be contained,
creates the patter of rain out my one
window. I listen expectantly for the

rivulets that will begin to develop two
stories down, upon the metal rooftop
of the courtyard that separates one wing
of my building from the other. When the

shooshing doesn’t come, my ears relay a
bit of relief – misshapen by the whir of the
desperate wind, which is as imaginary as
the rain – to the synapses of my brain,

wherein this symphony was derived. It’s all
in my head, where it remains wholly contained.

mmmmcxlix

Springtime in November*

It seems time, running like a bull, has me
right at headbutting another solo Thanks
giving. My tenth one in a row. A decade of
flying solo and mostly burdened with financial

distress and depression during the holidays. I
am still not used to the absurdity of hermit-dum,
not comfortable with it even after this long. And
this year that double kidney-punch that are my

usual holiday burdens that make bearing the dur
ation between Thanksgiving and the New Year alone
triply abhorrent, seem even worse than ever. And
yet. Somehow. At least presently, I’m not reeling

with defeat; I’m even...optimistic. It’s such a treat. I
am thankful! Stay gone, dread! Happy Thanksgiving, all!

*this trend upward hopefully ends my miniseries, The Bitter Sonnets

mmmmcxlviii

Me Time

I need some me time. Gonna call in sick
to work today. Okay. So now I’m sarcastic
ally ensconced in the sand at this gorgeous
beach, no worries whatsoever, watching the

waves flicker under the glimmering sun as
they tongue at the sparkling silica spread
between me and the fluctuating boundary
of the firmament. All of this I do, whilst

sitting in the coffin-sized space in which I
live, crumpled beneath, up and over this
bruise-battered desk that’s what’s mine,
twitch-dreaming the day away and into the

sour unswallowable horse-pill of another
unimaginative night’s sleepless oblivion.

mmmmcxlvi

Off the Grid

They say he just fell off the map.
But laughing? Something like that.
He had an orange for breakfast and
that was the last we saw of him. An

orange? That’s all? Are you certain it
wasn’t an onion? But he was a good fell
ow. Many say. It became apparent over
the years, after his disappearance, that

there were some conflicts. Just generic
scuttlebutt. He had a soul? He was decent?
Conflict had transpired. That’s the brunt of it.
Was this the root of his demise? I felt joy when

he was present. Inspired. But to speak of demise
hints at someone worth remembering; of renown.

mmmmcxlv

Scribble Me Out If You Will

                                for memory

The past. No, the present. The
past and the present. The invented
future? Maybe. My weblog. My
maplogs. My logs. All the logs

not meant for a fireplace. Although,
nothing about splitting logs. There’s
death in that. What’s to unscribble?
Perhaps more, perhaps much more;

this part is to be determined. All
the films I’ve experienced. Teevee
shows included. Every book I’ve ever
read. All acquaintances whom if en

countered today who’d stop to gab, and
wish me well in earnest, alive or dead.

mmmmcxliv

Surprises in Hell

It’s important to keep one’s humor about one
self when in hell. As is the case anyplace, there
are things that can tickle the senses into a laugh,
or a reminiscent chuckle or at least a glimmer of an

overheated smile, even in such a despicable place as
this. While it’s true, of course, that the devil himself is
no fan of seeing his ‘acolytes’ reveal anything the least
bit positive, be it a smile, a laugh, a chuckle, or tip of the

proverbial hat. Ooh, and he hates to witness the act of a
good deed by anyone in this godforsaken place. But humor
still exists, even here, even when the news is bad, when your
‘friends’ spit nails at your skull, and when the chore list is so pain

ful it literally cannot be tolerated. But worst of all is when an old pal
suddenly appears and looks right through you like you never existed.

mmmmcxliii

Sitting Down for a Discussion

It sadly could be our last. But I could live
with that. This would be preferable to not
even bothering. Sure the unwillingness is
not only astonishing, but something incred

ibly tough to get over. A tragedy. A heart
break. Something, yet, with which I have
no option but to deal. To move forward. At
least it is closure. This mysterious subject has

to end, right? Who cares about this matter? Me.
That’s pretty much it. Surely not the other party.
Party. Which we did so much of, in the inebriated
sense. In just the celebratory sense. So much was

shared. And sure, it’s been years. But to say that I
would have never dreamed it would go off like this . . . .

mmmmcxlii

Television

I should watch more teevee.
When I do I’m transported.
Sometimes there’s too much
suspense, but even this isn’t

reality. Sometimes there’s
such joy, there’s such per
fection that I find myself with
tears rolling down my cheeks.

These are not tears of sadness.
They are of joy, of catharsis. This
frisson is so rejuvenating that of
course I should do this more often,

delve into the unreal, the beauty
that is nowhere but in this figment.

mmmmcxli

How Exactly Did I Get Here?

Love is illogical, love is blind,
it’s the dumbest thing imagin
able sometimes. Most times?
I haven’t normally thought this

way, but contemplating my sev
eral encounters with the grab
you and have at you one-track. . . .
It’s not always that. Is it always

that? Love can bring all else to
a standstill. Love can be such a
myth. Oh, you believe. And that
it is reciprocated. Ha. But when

it comes to love, the cynicism lasts
only so long until you’re ready again.

mmmmcxlvii

Come Away from the Ledge

Perhaps tonight it’s impossible
not to dwell on the tiny lip of
the city below.  I seek a glimmer
or three.  I’m closer to heaven

up here?  Moving from subjects
not to take lightly to those that
are light: I’m alive?  Oh, this
might take a while.  I have such

a cache of photos from my past.
Perhaps I’ve been more nostalgic
than I thought I was.  This project.
Or, for example, I generally enjoy

randomly scanning these photographs.
When will this be the case once more?

mmmmcxxxix

Sonnets

Sonnets can be succinct, can tell
or at least intimate an often pro
found story. But what if one did
not? Recently I’ve been hit by a

bit of a triple whammy, what I’ve
been wanting to be by the beginning
of the year that comes next will not
be who I am. Quite contrary, it would

seem. Furthermore, some of my best
memories have been rewritten, thanks
to one of the whammies. Needless to
say, I’m depressed, and without explain

ing much (where’s the story?) I’ve no
means at all to improve the situation.

mmmmcxl

I Just Can’t

When you’re hit by something
so confusing it is hystorical.

There are just no words at first. 

And maybe, you give some sort of 

dumbfounded response to the hypocrisy.

but then you realize it’s one lousy human’s 

way to escape reality. Time happens like 

a prayer filled with all of the things you 

should have said. Spare dwelling on the 

tale’s details. Make it a lesson, instead.  Del

egitimize the history you thought was. 

Stride, chin up; deal. Reality is. Feckless 

humans drop you, disavow even the notion 

of loyalty, dissolving your fondest memories.

mmmmcxxxviii

Where’s Yaddo?
(Some Pomp & Circumstance)

“An anxiety-inducing dilemma, in
deed! What has become of you?”
Now we have internal dialogue –
sweet mother of – I have voices

in my head!? It’s late on a Saturday.
I’m riffling through Indeed (dot com).
For at least a minute. But then what
happens?? Well, this happens. Yep,

this act that’s just sooo important.
Has. Become. My. Procrastination?
Uh uh! It took me 40 years to call my
self Artist, Writer. But penniless coming

full circle was definitely not the plan.
Plus, it’s Saturday night! So screw it!

mmmmcxxxvii

Panda Mick’s Post

POV of the trio of
waddle-cuddles all
tucked b&w into a
box of peanuts –

peanut shells to be
all ecological. Damp
noses pressed on each
other as they uncomfor

tably spoon and swoon
over a vast, unseen
ocean, sniffing each
other’s eucalypt souls

wondering about China’s
economic/political future.

mmmmcxxxvi

Kink Tut

Wrap me up in
your funniest
undies like
a mummy.

Amenhotep
heaven!

This, I decree,
must surely be
the most direct
way to heaven.

King Noah Tut-tut

mmmmcxxxv

A Sonnet Catches a 

Glimpse of Its Reflection

Am I the mess that you
want me to be? And is
this [demonstrating its
architecture to its reflect

ion]? That mimicry is
flattery has this (and
all) sonnets expertly
puffing their chests –

proudly AND sexily.
Love can be seedy
and filled with growing
trees. Thinks the poem,

on its knees, all ego:
“abab cdcd efef gg.”

mmmmcxxxiv

Here’s My Lack
of Imagination

To write
about
being
broke

is to
have
a lack of
imagination.

mmmmcxxxiii

You Animal!

A carafe of
giraffe sounds
enticing (don’t
laugh).  Or a

sordid duet
with a puma,
under a crescent
moon.  I’d rhumba

with a rhino on
the beaches of
the Rhine.  But,
all said, I’d rath

er with you pounce
away all my time.

mmmmcxxxii

Ornery with an H

Scooch it
into the
spotlight.
Resist the

pose.  Al
ways act.
Action is
perfection.

Slap the
scandals
senseless.
Since when

was skin such
soulful bliss?

mmmmcxxxi

Flipped from the Headlines

Who can bear it?
Somebody’s asking
for it.  Where’s the
money?  Ask the suits

in bored rooms.  Which
channel to watch today?
It’s War vs. Soap.  Beauty
products clean the blood.

Down the drain go our 

hearts.  Just the facts.  The 

WMDs are buried under NYC. 

Next up: Guns for Mugging

Judges.  Make mine soapy.
Pray my brains don’t clog.

mmmmcxxx

Riddle

Man arrives.
Reason’s virtue.
I’m nobody.

mmmmcxxix

Northeast

Pout.
Pelt.
Pinch.
Press.

Smirk.
Twerk.
Work.
Perk.

Appear.
Disappear.
Smear.
Sneer.

I saw you a’comin’ when
the news turnt me out.

(The Far Right)

mmmmcxxviii

Pastel Gardens

To prune.
To bear.
To slough.
To spoon.

To wake.
To ache.
To bake.
To slake.

To smack.
To make.
To pack.
To take.

To stop too slow.  To boom.
To glow.  (To bloom and go.)

mmmmcxxv

(my laptop is dead so this poem is for now handwritten. worse than that, by me. apologies!)

mmmmcxxiv

(my laptop is dead so this poem is for now handwritten. worse than that, by me. apologies!)

mmmmcxxiii

Urgent

I’m supposed to be doing.
I should be. The plan was.
Turn on the news. The
weather. Pick outfit. Walk
dog. Take out trash. Empty
the litter box. Water plants.
Make reservation. Get a job.
Here’s what needs to happen.
To do list. To do list says. I’ve
got to go do. Urgently. ASAP.
This should be done immediately.
Remember to. Priority items.
All caps. ALL CAPS. The laundry.
The dishes. The floor. The bills.
Put a stamp on it. Errands. Call
Mom. I need to call. Grocery
list. Social life. The reading on
Sunday night. Scratch it off.
Combine the three lists into
one. Put in calendar. Check
calendar. Respond to. Fix
it. Do it. Put a pin in it.
Research. Look up how
to spell. Definition of.
Finish. Read the rest.
Print the article. Order
in. Focus. Focus on.
Edit. Send. Apologize.
Deadline. Call him at
two this afternoon.
Recurring items.
Don’t forget to.
Brainstorm. Be
social. Socialize.
Request further
instructions.
Details. Info.
Birthday card.
Get creative.
Check blood
sugar. Make
appointment.
Apply. Send
thank you.
Retract. Check
blood pressure.
Write a check.
Take meds. Call
the doctor. Follow
up. Wind it down.
Clear the hurdle.
Obliterate that
obstacle. Get
a life.

mmmmcxxi

Uptick?

Swallow your
pride?  Sure.
But if so, up
chuck your
gullibility.
Dispose of
depression,
anxiety and,
while you’re
at it (and why
not?), disease
and pestilence.
The era of the
voice is not even
a toehold down to
earth, but when the
voice reigns its
swollen toes w/o

ever touching the
earth wholl carve
those dugout
human-sized
cave holes 

way down

into the 

depths

of it?

mmmmcxx

Symphonie Insensée

It doesn’t matter
how much talent
you have. Nor
how long you’ve
worked at it. Nor
how successful an

apprenticeship or

the amount of
legwork you’ve
chalked up doing
whatever it is that
you do. That you
want to do. Well,
whether or not you
want to be doing it
or anything else.
Soberly, I rose
to the occasion,
tipped my hat,
twisted an about-
face, all but tip
toed off the stage
and practically fell
out the door and
into the traffic.
Before that big
truck hit the bus
iness that was me,
did I hear – how
might I even recol
lect? – the sweet
sound of the city
as it whooped its
obligatory cresc
endo into that
swollen and
slightly off-
key yet mes
merizing chord?
Who cares? I
whipped my
drained and
deranged body
of business “out
of harm’s way,”
and skipped
toward the
bedizened
horizon and into
an inevitable
oblivion.

mmmmcxix

Punk

The stuff
I’ve yet to do . . . .

mmmmcxviii

22 (back to broke)


popped into a Cutlass drove up to the Seven Eleven on a

danger somethin about a hillbilly on the skank and a

dancefloor can the music really do it to it popped

into a Cutlass drove up to the wall at the end of the

baby pinnin me to the wall yeah to the Seven

with Depeche Mode on your new duds with a

fuckin banker as the lord jesus christ hisself

let it hit ya can it hit ya doncha even hafta let it mister

and wonder why many as three people can fuck and get it

on even on even on the same waterbed yeah shake

that skinny-ass tie baby nineteen eighty


popped into a Cutlass drove up to the Seven Eleven

on a danger somethin about a missin hillbilly

hisself got the rain on the windshield and party

how can you grab hold of a dyin beat let him

bedragged up the stairs and find him down again down

again aw that smile on his face grippin over the porcelain

in a studio in Little Rock doll why doncha just

lift up the good stuff I’ll make you skinnydip

you gotta dip with me baby you gotta I gotcha

poolside gotcha poolside and the dogs don’t even count


popped into the Seven Eleven on a danger mission

got it whipped with a high five and no bankers

gonna step on into the dumpster for a smoke

shakin it like he’s believin it and then

mouse it on up the hill for a coupla

blooms see to it the pops don’t mess ya don’t

watch it go up into the clouds and on such a shiny

nighttime we got the music real and if I don’t keep

walkin keep walkin in the pourin offa the blacktop

the pool the pool’s gonna get too cold too fuckin


popped into the Seven Eleven and told the man

not to move not to move we gotta hillbilly he don’t

know who’s gonna pray and who’s gonna sing how

do you grab hold grab hold in Little Rock get to

divin down at the supermarket next to the gaybar

next to the Seven Eleven I told you so doncha

drag me up the stairway I don’t have no waterbed

you don’t know me from Christmas I found this

piece a mud in the alley down by the stairwell and

the banker done pinned me to the wall with his

dead fuckin Cutlass in the broke-ass

middle of Little Rock

mmmmcxvii

Vexed

I try to write a poem.
It is a doozy of a downer.
Is this all I can be?  Perhaps
I should do something
else.  Or, and this seems
more important at the
moment, maybe I
should concentrate,
and quite heavily,
on not being such
a doozy of a downer.

mmmmcxvi

The Evil Machine

It is all simplicity drained
into a medium-sized metallic
box. One that you can carry
around all day and never know

it’s even with you, until you look
down, whether you’re holding it,
have it held by a strap over your
shoulder, the box dangling at the

side of your butt, or have it rigged
to sling over both shoulders, like a
backpack. Like the one in which
you once would carry at least a

half a dozen books. You don’t
really know what it does, nor
why you’re compelled to have it
with you every second of your

existence. It wasn’t always like
this. There was a time when you
felt light as air, when you believed
in the myth of freedom. You dreamed

you could soar. All the normal stuff.
But then there was that box. Did you
make it? Was it a gift? Did you find
it somewhere, like in a dumpster, or

some executive’s office? Perhaps
washed ashore, back when the
beach of the deep drain was
the only ominous that you knew.

That you felt. And still, as you
look out over the vast ocean,
and at the setting sun, say. Do
you remember what was prom

inent? What was at the forefront?
When you could go anywhere, be
anything and, most importantly,
when you could escape any time

you wanted. You could just leave.
For a moment. For a few days. Or
to begin again, to start fresh, and
this you did on occasion. It was

rare, but it was an option. Yet look
at you now, so completely unaware,
so devastatingly out of options, with
out even the memory of those days,

of that freedom, of those choices that
were at your disposal. And that you
got to decide. Sometimes a glimpse
of the idea of choice, as if deep within,

as of the ashes of what used to be 

the coal in the furnace of your skull 

is stirred, just enough to whip up an
ember. But then. It’s gone. And

you look around as gooseflesh crawls
across your skin. Thinking maybe
someone.... But there’s no one.
Nothing. Except the box,

which you clamp tighter between
your arms, hoist its harness up
closer to your neck, or tug at
the straps across your chest,

bringing what’s behind you closer,
tighter, feeling it flush, a square
to your back, that gives you, so
clueless, the idea that you are

safe, that you are secure, that this
world is yours.  And with these thoughts,
the ember darkens, and you blindly find
your comfort, your security, your peace.