mmmmccclxvii

True Crime Podcast Interview Topic

The genre’s not that appealing to me.
If I’ve got to be subjected to such things,
I prefer it hammy and whodunnit, like
Agatha Christie in all-star washed up cast

flicks from the 1970s. There’s always a mansion 

(unless you’re on the Orient Express, so I guess 

there are viable exceptions that’d keep me 

satisfied). But if I were doing one of those

silly whodunnit dinners, it’d have to be a cut
above, nothing terribly trite. How to solve
that problem, I’ve no idea. I certainly wouldn’t
literally die, or have a guest actually murdered,

but an actual dead body might be just the
thing. Where’s Quincy when you need him?

mmmmccclxvi

Karma Kawestion

Do I believe in it?  Of course.  Some
days are good and some days are bad.
Sometimes you’ve earned that good
or you’ve earned that crappy day,

and sometimes the bad guys get away
with the murder of the dead guy who,
while alive, was nothing but a sweetheart. 

And look where that got him.  Or look 

where he got.  So, sure, some moments
are lucky.  Some years are lucky.  Some
decades are the absolute fucking worst.
We take the control that we can, but

there are no guarantees we’ll nab the goal
to which every ounce of our focus goes.

mmmmccclxv

Easy Interview Question

Oh that’s very easy, you
try to look them in the
eye as you pass them by,
smile as earnestly as you
can, and say “Hi there!”
and maybe, if they res
pond, something like
“Thank you. Have an
awesome day!”

mmmmccclxiv

Guest Humps Host

Sure, of course I would do
that. I wouldn’t even nec
essarily be picky about its
location or even its design

or layout. I mean, it’d be
cool if it were clean. But
sure, I’d swap mine with
almost anyone. If I really

got to choose where? Well,
there are lots of places that
come to mind. Some areas
that I’ve been to, like Venice,

yeah, or Hong Kong, though
I’ve a feeling I would not love
that place as much now that
the mainland has retaken it.

Tokyo, for sure. Or places
I want to go, like Lima,
which would be quite handy,
or Bangkok or someplace

in Vietnam, Laos or Cambodia.
Or Barcelona! Or Iceland!
Or Montreal, although I’ve
been there. Twice. The

most beautiful men in the
world. My birthday just
happened, by the way.
And I just watched

Day Drinking with Seth
and Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

mmmmccclxiii

Guest Stumps Host

Anxiety.  Because
then I wouldn’t
have any.

mmmmccclxii

The Extended Interview

     And it’s also a picture of an artist that’s...not creating their art,
     which is the scariest thing in the world.
                —Richard Linklater (of Bernadette from Where’d You Go
                   Bernadette, a novel by Maria Semple)

I’m not sure. What is my dream. I have lots of them.
And if I have lots of them, then, isn’t the primary dream
just to create and be; to make art. To be. To exist in the
best and most pleasant way possible, and that can’t be all
the time, pleasant, best, because that’s impossible, hence
the need for the goal. But is the goal the art that gets made
or is the goal to be the artist that makes these things? How
much of a problem is the creator problem? So that dream,
these dreams, the creator one, the artist one, the being
an artist dream, that never ends, as far as I can tell. Being
a part of that, the art, what gets me going, being able to say
“I’m someone that makes that,” or better still “I made that.”
Very problematic, especially with no other context. So, what
is that? And what does it matter, anyway. Because is that
really the dream? Of course it isn’t. That is a means to an
end, a way toward the real dream. Which is really quite
simple, isn’t it? I mean, for me. My dream, and no, it will
never end, is engagement. It may not go without saying
that whatever it is that I might create, well, the hope is
that it is something that propels. Toward a greater good.
I can say that. It’s true. But nothing propels or can propel
toward a better way than by involving oneself with other
humans in an intimate manner. Or creating something

that engages others or, hopefully, engages me with other

people.  That is the goal.  Engagement. On all levels. And 

in each of these levels, at each moment, whether subtly 

(because you can’t go hard every single time) or hammer-

on-head redundant, it is always, always, always intentionally 

and strategically as deep as you can get. Go all the way. 

Being impossible, like nirvana, as I always say. But it’s 

still the goal. It’s still the dream. Do something with that. 

And that never dies. Never.  Or not, at any rate, until I do.

mmmmccclxi

Another Question

Are you kidding? Maybe this is the
real problem. How would others
approach this question? Can we
get some sort of poll? Let’s
just start with murder. If
given the opportunity,
absolutely not.
How can
this even
be one of your questions?

mmmmccclx

The Next Question of the Interview

If money were no object? Oh, I’d elope.

mmmmccclix

The Question That Stops the Show for More Than a Moment

Don’t ask me that.  It’s been ten years
of nothing but the future.  Having no
present is death, don’t you think?  I
certainly do.  Nothing but future
(goals, what would have seemed so
easy in the past, or doable, with age
become more and more difficult to reach,
and then impossible), looking back on the
past, which held so much future but, more
amazing was the now of it all.  The now 

of almost everything.  Or it seems that
way presently.  Due to the distinct lack 

of anything resembling life occurring 

at present, given that it’s just me 

here.  There is potential, but that 

potential weakens into teases, 

taunts, and inevitably...

mmmmccclviii

The Next Question During the Interview

I’m not sure if I believe something
that most people don’t. I’d say I
probably do. A lot of things, more
than likely. But that’s not what I
thought of when you asked that
question. Nope. What I thought
about is that I believe in something
that seems completely eschewed by
the general public, whether or not
they actually believe in it or not.
But I believe in what is notably
seemingly proven wrong over
and over and over again by
individual after individual
that make up what we
call humanity. There
are such long stretches
of time in which I see so
much of this thing I believe
being seemingly proven wrong
that once, and for a long enough
duration, let’s say during the worst
part of my life, which would, well, is
easy for me to know when that was,
but we can just leave it at that, I
totally began to disbelieve. I lost
faith. To be more clear, I lost faith
in humanity. It’s not that humanity
little by little doesn’t continue to
try its best to prove wrong that
there might be any good left
in any of it. But something
did happen to me. A human.
A human that is good. That’s
all it took. And so I’ve got it back,
this faith in humanity that I almost
lost for good, or thought I had. And
for that I’m so grateful. Because
how many days might I awaken
and continue to be in any way
alive, believing no good existed
in people any more. So.
Who knows if most people
do or do not have this belief,
this faith. All I know is that
almost each and every individual
goes about trying to disprove the
good in themselves, and so very
convincingly. But I still believe.

mmmmccclvii

The Talk Show Gets Colorful

Well, it’s gay. Or representative
of queer and all of its various
thisses and thats. Which smushes
a lot of stuff together, but I’ve grown
over the years to appreciate that
smushiness. Especially as I’ve
become less problematic in the
eyes of the bozos than some of
those with whom I’m smushed.
There was this really weird 

Bonanza episode. Gosh, when I 

mention shows that old these days

it begins to other me in the worst

possible way. I keep thinking about 

how I hope that such things are 

going to be kept in the 

archives, as there’s no hope 

they’ll remain in any general 

psyche. Not that this is a problem. 

And anyway, can you imagine Roy G. Biv
as representative of you or me in, say
1963? We can go earlier but we can
certainly go a lot later, too. And who
knows about the future, see?  The steps
back that are being taken could keep
moving further and further into
decline, out of reach, out of joy,
far away from pride.  It breaks
my heart thinking what pride
might possibly evoke among
any general population,
especially among any
marginalized group,
tomorrow or the
next day or in
the next
century.
But back to the episode.
Hoss, I think, had been
transported to a land
that seemed obnoxiously Irish, 

just over the top, and there was a leprechaun,
and I think an incessant attempt to reach
the end of a rainbow to get a pot of gold.
It was always almost within reach. Adam
and Little Joe, was this his name, Pa from
Little House on the Prairie a few years later?
Even Lorne Green, the patriarch of this all male
family was involved in this off-kilter St. Patrick’s Day
episode. By the time the show came to some
end the previous hour was surely
somehow wiped clean. So there’s that
notion, that representation, which as a
child would be my only answer, I suppose,
where it was nothing but a colorful map
that got you almost to that big pot of
gold, the hope of suddenly waking
up and being rich. Out of nowhere.
Of course, also, there’s the calm,
the peace of it being what remains
after the storm, no matter how
mild or how damaging; that

great big beautiful sign that

the storm is over.  If 
it ever really is.

mmmmccclvi

The Interview Continues

That’s an easy one.  What
gives me hope is the younger
generation.  But by that, I mean
nothing above the age of Generation Z.

And yes, a curse on the generation
between us and them.  I mean,
neither you nor I need to curse
them, they’re already quite there.

We like to say that the world depends on
these kids, as we’ve fucked things up enough,
as if they ever had a chance.  Well, I say they
have more than a chance, they are going

to thrive, as they now do, and remain the

heroes of this godforsaken planet.  Not 

to mention my life depends in many

ways on one in particular.  Which isn’t 

an entirely different subject.  But
don’t think I’m going to give
you any more than that
at the moment.  Nope.

mmmmccclv

Another Interview Question

Ah, this is so fun, so first off I’d
invite Tokischa – not Madonna,
even though I love her, but at
my birthday party? I don’t think
so. But the reason I’d invite
Tokischa is definitely because
of that raunchy video she did
remaking Madonna’s Hung Up
with her a couple years back.
And add Joseph Gordon-Leavitt.
I don’t care that he’s grunged
out so. I just noticed he’s
Axel Foley’s new partner, what
a perfect pair they might be. Ooh,
and we must have some good
old fashioned liberal journalistic
flair, so let’s make sure that, say,
Rachel Maddow and Nicole Wallace 

come. Love them! Howard Jones is 

a must, of course, and we’ll invite

Jamie Lee Curtis for that wigged-

out sober zing-zing, yeah? Here’s
a blast from the past just to
add some party-fun tension,
let’s invite Nik Kershaw. At
least I always imagined that he
and Howard Jones were arch-

nemeses. Greta Gerwig for sure. 

And if you’d have asked me a 

couple of years ago I would 

have said Ryan Reynolds, 

but let’s have the Ryan 

of the moment, Mister I’m
Just Ken come. Wow, this
party is really starting to
smack! Yorgos Lanthimos,
Catherine Deneuve (if she’s
still alive), François Ozon,
Lenny Kravitz (since MJ
and Prince are not options),
Seth Myers and Stephen
Colbert and (why not?)
Jimmy Kimmel, Miley
Cyrus, Midnight Oil (the
entire band, okay?),
Robert Downey, Jr.,
and we are going to
leave so many people
out, but let’s round this
group out with Trent
Reznor, Hannah Einbinder,
oh, and Anselm Berrigan,
Peter Gizzi and Anne Waldman!
What heroes!  What people 

of today!  Now it will be the 

most amazing birthday party!

mmmmcccliv

Interview Moment

Oh it’d be Trevor,
I can’t even tell
you why, though,
I just totally dug
that name, maybe.
I guess I’d heard of
two Trevors, one being
Trevor Horn because

he the producer for
the albums of Howard 

Jones, my favorite 

artist for a lot of my
late adolescence
and teenage years,
all the way to college,
actually. I’d perform
Dream Into Action,
you know, the title
track of his album
that was a follow-up

to the one that had the

number one hit New Song.

This album also had what

is probably his most 

recognizable hit,

No One Is to Blame

(only not the version 

with Phil Collins
playing the
drums), but

instead, like I

said,  the title 

track which wasn’t

released and which
nobody but me knew.
But I knew it. I’d always
wear a plaid house robe,
get up on a coffee table
and lip sync to the entire
song (and yes, I knew
every word). The other
Trevor was Trevor Winkfield.
And here is where my 

memory screws me over

because I was not that

young when I discovered

Winkfield, the British 

artist and writer who 

has such colorful,
mechanical-looking
paintings and was
friends with many
of the original
New York School
of Poets.  But, yeah,

I had no idea who 
he was until I was 

at least in my 30s, 

which was well

beyond my Trevor-

loving years.

Nonetheless, 

in answer to your

question, I guess
the name that struck me
as fantastic from the moment
I saw it on the liner notes of 

the Howard Jones albums I
purchased originally in
cassette tape versions
somehow became the
it name for me for a

while. But, well, 

the truth is, I
would not want any
other name, no way,
I love my name in the
end. I mean Trevor is
nice, but my full name,
well, my Dad came up
with it, and it’s a splendid
name, seems to me like
it could be on a marquis,
and I use my whole name,
otherwise it’s pretty dull,
but with my middle name,
yeah, that’s the name I
publish with and it was
the name I used when

performing, so, yeah,
the name I have.
Second best is still
Trevor, though.

mmmmcccliii

A Shrug Isn’t Exactly What I’m Saying

Feeling a bit melancholy
on a Friday, but can I also
say I’m feeling more alive
and healthy and hopeful

than I’ve felt in a very
long time (pardon while
I intentionally do not
attempt to calculate

that duration)?  Does
everyone not hold such
conflicting feelings at
once on a general basis?

I guess not, but as we
enter June, this Gemini
says with confidence,
hesitance and a little

bit of pride and glee:
I do.  And a hello
from mixed up me
to beautiful you.

mmmmccclii

Body & Soul

I, tenderly,
am an awkward
person. It isn’t
that I’m not of
a mind. It’s just
that generally,
awkward, anxious,
flighty, always
thinking ten
steps ahead,
these things
don’t render
the tender.
Regardless
of this logical
incapability,
I try. I do
try. And
speaking
of logic,
the typical
mode I use
to walk through
each day is in hopes
of making it to another
in the most pleasant and
satisfying way. I am,
nevertheless, an
idealist, a rom
antic. I mean
I make my way
awkwardly through
these days I intend to
complete, if only just
to get to the next,
a poet. If that
means I’m a
romantic
with a
capital
R
or just
makes me
the Gemini
that I purportedly
am, I’ll take that
dichotomy, stumble
around in my various
ways with it, and make
it my own. In fact, as
logic would suggest,
I’ll use that conflict
to better place one
foot in front of
the other in
doing so,
even if
from any
perspective
that act lacks
legitimate grace.

mmmmcccli

Abstract Painting

My favorite memory
is full of color, lots of
blues for the water
running through the

city, golden from the
brilliant sun, pastels
from the paint cover
ing the residences

alongside.  Architect
ure that doesn’t feel
metallic, is organic
in that space, being

at a deficit, is fully
utilized.  Water drains
behind my eyes, such
pleasure in the aesth

etic.  A gondolier’s
song.  The only rain
showers were upon
entry to the city of

the most pleasure
and, with a beautiful
stark black umbrella,
from that famous

square in the hours
before having to
head back into
routine civilization.

mmmmcccl

Poem from Stone

How long should it last?
Is it the marker for a
grave? What do I want
to say, if given the opp

ortunity, to you? Who
are you and what is it
like to be here at...
when is this? It would

have to be about me.
I like the feeling I get
writing that. It’s so
naughty. Or maybe it

could be inhuman,
filled with active verbs
turned nouns. Me,
erased completely.

That seems so insincere.
Or. Maybe you could come
here. Save me (us) from
what you know took me (us).

Do you have the cure?
Imagine nothing. Blank space.
A sheaf of paper with nothing
on it. No blood. No ink. From me.

mmmmcccxlix

A Smooth June

I’d found an apartment
just beneath Nob Hill,
where even back then
people would say
TenderNob rather than
Tenderloin. Lower Nob
Hill. I made a little
office out of half of the
closet of that studio
apartment. It had a tiny
window with a pretty
view behind the old
fire station that had
become the residence
of the Fire Chief, or
had been used previous

ly as such. The current
Fire Chief had stayed
at their current residence.
Or that was my under
standing. But there
was a lovely back lawn
behind it that I could
see out that window,
which was spotted with
live blooming plants
here and there. This
was my first room with
a view in the city that
has become my home,
where I’ve lived longer
than any other city.
Or town. Or state,
even. I had a little
bookshelf in that
office, the bottom
shelf of which was
filled with journals
I’d filled over the
years, my diaries,
which I no longer
have, having lost
the last of all that
I’d kept from the
beginning of time,
my time, when I
was fifty and with
out a home. Any
way, the flowers,
such a pretty thing
to see during the
day. And at night,
way up in the sky
and to the north,
my right, sitting at

my small desk look

ing out that window,

I’d see the huge
neon sign that I
knew stood atop
the Hotel Huntington.
I suppose I know this
because the words
in neon were “Hotel
Huntington.” At
night in my new
studio apartment
where I wrote the
first of these pieces.

mmmmcccxlviii

Down As The Way Up

Memory can’t save

everything. Some
things that I used
to know can, perhaps,

never be known again.
Like being sexy, or con
fidently flirty. [I hear
a collective sigh?]

But imagine my dis
appointment. I think
to myself, This should
not be the case. But

that I let you take
these things away
from me, that’s the
hell of it all. Imagine

your surprise when,
all these years later,
I refuse to blame my
self, blame you. These

rare moments when
I give in, blame my
self, utterly, are the
worst possible. This

should not be the case.
Thieves of the soul,

all of you. I was not
born to play this part.

A Feeble Attempt

mmmmcccxlvii

The Plunger’s Pucker

what am I doing?
reading doesn’t help.
i’m pretty sure that
talking about it doesn’t
exactly
resolve anything either. what
’s gotten into me? my head
spins until i’m exhausted. this

blank screen, my lovely,
lonely notebook. were i to
outright give into this
chokehold i’d assuredly
kick the proverbial bucket.

mmmmcccxlvi

Paper Pumpkins

Woke up from a dream
of being strangled. I
stretch myself out as
long as I possibly

can. Hold myself at
that length, slowly
untangle from the
deep of the night

and worry if this
is as far as it goes.
Craving curry,
I give up, boil a

pot of spaghetti
at 4 in the morning.

mmmmcccxlv

Left Wanting (part 2)

Were the days
now, and the
words that
would fill
them and
later, if memory
would even serve,
would be used to
prop them up or
hold on to them,
which was no
longer fun or
rarely used
for anything
but kvetching,
a complaint
against them,
one by one.
And gone
as well were
most if not all
of each hour
of each night.
Although
he couldn’t
really say
the same
about the
hours that
he slept. He’d
long ago become
so exhausted that
dreams were all
but lost upon
awakening.
Gone were
those allur
ing chimes
that beckoned
him toward and
then into each
potentially
upending
slumber;
the chaos
of impending
dreams had
given way
to the
tiring
dread
of day.

mmmmcccxliv

An Actor’s Shame

He was a performer
first and foremost.

But he strutted and
fretted with such

sincerity.  Forget
but do not forget also

the intensity hewn
with a constant

through line of
anxiety, and you’ve

got the sort of life
a tombstone could

with pride announce
to its random and,

he’d hope a little,
not so random,

passers-by.
Which stunk.

He knew that.
Just as he most

always could close
his eyes and see

before him the
chaotic swoops

and swerves of
the story’s plot.

mmmmcccxliii

Comprehension

My experience is
only mine. If you
told me that you
wonder and even

worry about how
the things you
remember, say,
collectively, with,

I don’t know, any
group of people
who maybe were
there when you

experienced a
thing...about
how soon there
will be nothing

like that thing
remembered,
collectively,
singularly,

that it will
quite possibly
even be less
significant

than that,
your mem
ory, whether
shared with

others
in some
way...

or not....

mmmmcccxlii

Unashamed

Sometimes I feel like I
Know where I’ve been.  Who
I am.  Where I am
Not supposed to be.  And every

     So often.  Like now.  As I
     Kneel here next to my bed, peering
     Into the shadows beneath it,
     Not able to discern a solid thing,
     Neither my wallet, my brand new
     Eyeglasses, my new headphones nor my 

     Driver’s license.  All are lost, like my housekeys.  Like me.

mmmmcccxli

Social Discomfort

Get over yourself!
Ours is the best product in
Some time.  Be resilient.
Socially network.
I always find ways to talk about myself.
Pen in hand, you look very appetizing.

      God, I hate this!
      One minute, everything
      Seems to work, the next minute, it’s all
      Sex, sex, sex!
      I’ve had enough of this nonsense.
      Perhaps I should give you a key to my apartment.

mmmmcccxl

Eight Months Underground

i get my exercise of late by
going for a daily swim in a
pool of disappearances. to

forget your gift: communication.
be it in plain-speak; layman’s
terms. academic. or both.

seeing the light at the end
of a tunnel and comparing
that to near-death experiences.

like i said, i’m not dead.
holding on to hope after
the summer fog evaporates.

how many times must 2 x 2
x 2 equal dated, equal late,
equal no dates, start with an

infernal earthquake. go back
to jack. get out the frank, the
frankly giving of a damn. grab

the real man and exercise that
plan. hail fortitude. trade in
the house with its foundation

of fog that you were thrown
like a bowling ball down
from the bleeding edge of

our fair city’s steepest incline.
to roll and all but dead into
a breezy summer fortress.

no more four more years
minus one, minus one,
minus one, minus one.

get back at zero by starting
to pile it on, this walking,
running, never digging

ever again. and then.
inhale more (recover)
denser oxygen, ex

the memory of the
shovel, then throw up
his godforsaken pitchfork.

rise from all fours until up
right. and now you’ve tipped
that dumb-ass cow of time.

mmmmcccxxxix

That’ll Never Do

My house is not
a spouse. My
bed is not a
head. This

sink could
never fill
up to the
tall glass

of water
I’d rather
see before
me. I pilfer

this closet
floor, shoe
after shoe
after

shoe—and
still can’t
in this
shifty

palace
find one
single precious
piece of you.

mmmmcccxxxviii

This Ought to Help

He reaches into his
back pocket and pulls
out something.  Un
beknownst to his

audience, who could
not even begin to
glimpse that he held
something in his hand.

As it turned out,
what he had pulled

from practically 

right out of his

butt, about which the 

crowd had no clue 

(and never did) was 

the magician’s sense

of humor.  What be
came clear was
that the spectators
were bored to tears,

or else, as a few of
them would by the
final act be,
to death.

mmmmcccxxxvii

Pinning Hope and Humor
on a Trove of Delusions

I have found that I am
all too inclined to believe
people. Despite all my
talk of skepticism and

being clear with myself
and with anyone who
cares to listen about
the easy fact that

everyone of us is
practically tied up
into knots within
a web of heresy.

That part I’m okay
with. How could
it not be this way?
In the rulebook of

life (to make things
just that much more
for reals, try picking
up a book of etiquette),

there are lies on every
other page. And inst
ructions for the endless
ways we need to pre

varicate on every
other. Thusly the
ties that bind begin
to come undone until

I find myself so out of
sorts, desperate for
honest human en
gagement, were it

to exist. I’d take
it just about however
I could get it, during
these, the most anxious

and self-annihilating times.
And so I reach out. And
I wait. And then I keep
reaching. And wait some

more. Sometimes this
goes on seemingly forever.
And then misguided hope
arrives, the bait has been

taken, and for whatever
reason you find you’ve
got a reaction, a real
human interaction.

Or so you think.
I get so blindsided
by these short inter
ruptions of silence.

They are most often
vague with a hint of
scolding, confusing
as a spanking for

something done
by a sibling. Poor
innocent me. But
within such responses

to my desperation there
always seems a thing
or two to which I cling,
until the words get

played within my
fogged up dust-
head for some
long weeks or

months. With
nothing else
coming from
that general

direction, no
more words.
Just the fact
that each in

evitability
must be
faced and
delusions are

not an option
(but aren’t they
always?).  Those
gems to which

I clung were
merely rhine
stones. A singular
promise cannot be

found within the
invalidity of the
long-distant words
from whomever.

The more that
time unfolds
the more that fact 

is clear, there’s

nothing realer than
that most humans,
in the end, but
willingly and

without a
seeming tinge
of regret, will
almost always

disappear.
The problem
is all me, you
see.  These

lessons teach,
one by one,
until at last
I am an

inconsistent
blur of shadow
and uncertainty
and altogether

human-free.
And yet I,
like some
untarnished

idiot, can never
quite extinguish
these last remain
ing dregs of hope.

mmmmcccxxvi

Customer Satisfaction Survey

How has the development
of maturity evolved over the
years? I’m asking whether or
not it has aged well. In the

Darwinian sense. One punch
line after another and eventually
not only does the reader fail to
buy into any of it, but this line

punches him right into the gut
and when he’s hurled over the
next bloodies his little button
nose. Reeling, he kicks the

book like a field goal into the
horizon’s pablum. Then what
becomes So what. Scoring ain’t
what it used to be. Now even the

thought of a bowl of alphabet soup
makes him sick to his stomach.

mmmmcccxxv

leaning

he got real intense,
leaned over and
practically into
the website....

gripping a cane
with his mottled
right hand, the
old man watched

another coming
at him with a tall
face divided in
half by a long

smile, arms
bent down to
a walker—two
broken hips

passing in
broad day
light....
holding

two overdue
invoices
in his left
hand, herc

ules was
doing his
damnedest
to navigate

the website
—disputed
documents
dot com—

without ask
ing anyone for
assistance....
in the middle

of the assisted
living center’s
luncheonette
-esque dining

hall stood a
bright red
boombox
blaring

bill withers’
lean on me....
charlie had
a wide circle

of friends.
when he died,
each of them
knew that

they now had
no one upon
whom they
could rely.

mmmmcccxxiv

Hello, Western Union?

Should I reactivate
August 1st?  One
can only honk a horn
for so long before
bleeding to death.

mmmmcccxxiii

the email address for heaven?

take me back to
simpler days.  the
days when corrup
tion was on the

down low.  when
we’d watch the
good wife and
not the good

fight.  ‘what
does it matter
that we’re a
country of laws

if the laws aren’t
just,’ over-enunci
ates an exasperated
diane lockhart via

the legendary
christine baranski
before our hero
takes a break

from reality,
succumbs to
microdosing
for an ecstatic

ally jaw-drop
ping duration.

mmmmcccxxii

14 or 15

I swear I had a plan.
That rare venom, a
dozen or so lines sewn
indivisibly onto the out

ers of my innards.  And
at work the ladies give
themselves away in the
most amazing ways.  How

to pretend the office is
abuzz, humming a pre-
quake brainstorm?  The
men’s upper lips doinked

up and down while, like
puppets, their lower lips
stood as still as the rim 

of this godforsaken canyon.