mmmmdcxxxix

Out of Order

The narrative floated
back and forth in time.
Sometimes things got
so mixed up that sep

arate events would
get jumbled together
as if they had literally
happened that way.

But did they? I
got to where I
couldn’t ascertain.
We liked to discuss

how this aspect of
the biopic emphasized
those layers of
complexity, and that

they give the audience
a sense of never
quite being aware
of exactly where

they were and what
was taking place.
Which pieces of this
somewhat off-kilter

puzzle transpired
in physical reality
and which were
merely small

conversations
or reactions

that took place
wholly within

the imagination
of the biographical
subject; what might
have simply been

hallucinatory?

Or could the story,
in being depicted
utilizing a combination

of “real” and “unreal”

pieces, simply be an
overarching metaphor
or juxtaposition through

which the audience
might in some real way
experience the years
of dementia through which

most of the central character’s
life so frantically, so tragically spun.

mmmmdcxxxviii

You Put a Spell on Me

there was a lady,
or at least i believe
that she was. i cannot
say exactly, but whoever

it was, well, she’d,
they’d peer through
this broken set of
vertical blinds—

and this would be
all the night long
and through the day,
all the way back

to dusk again—and
this, although i never
once could see their
lips—with such a hunger

and a determination—
i could see this with
ease staring into the
deep pools of their eyes,

eyes that wore this
mystery human’s (i
am pretty sure it
was a human)

veritable heart upon
its sleeve, which makes
no sense but perhaps
you can feel from this

peculiar illogic a vicinity
of nearby what i might
mean. i didn’t think
of that person veering

through those broken
blinds down at me for
those two weeks as
witch or even maleficent

in any way, but it is clear
that magic, in some way,
was being concocted and
swam like an electric breeze

in and around me during
each of those fourteen
glorious days. i’d just
finished some very

important travels and,
well, it was the first among
many long-held plans that
had finally come to fruition,

and that...matronly...person
stared down upon me and
for two solid weeks acted
simply as a conduit with

which to provide me
with this life, a kind of
motivation i’d not been
able to muster for decades.

and ever since then, a
small period of time
that has now settled
itself within me as a

distant, dizzy and glorious
transition, as if the person—
a photograph over one
month in an illustrated

calendar, a calendar in
which each new month
showcased a photograph
of graffiti, that was it, there

was no real person, no
witch, no magician,
there was simply a
depiction of so-called

artistic vandalism
looking over me—
after which i had 

almost an entire life

drained to near-
extinction, was
being poured, that

she was pouring it

carefully back
into me, into
what i’m sure
is my soul, or

whatever
exists within
me that most
resembles my

idea of one,
so that i became
alive again, really.
or i write these

words with more
than just a fervor
for hope that it
might truly happen,

just as i tell you that
it has in, order to
make it so.  alone i sit,
(that benevolent character

long gone), conjuring,
ordering it to be so.  

mmmmdcxxxvii

suspension / disbelief

i suppose i see works of
cinema, stage and television
much more often, in aggregate
as a critic, not as what seems
to me the more typical
audience member. i’ve no
problem with this, much as
i understand the necessity
of relating somehow to the
characters and story and
of believing in the whole
thing or giving yourself
into the world of the
work of art, whatever
it is. this that i am
relaying to you mostly
is just pretending to be
a poem, although a poem
i write is one that i say
is a poem, that seems the
only determining factor
for me, which is pretty
convenient and debatably
lazy. anyway, this, again,
is just an observation, or
a set of them, which i
appreciate this afternoon
for what i feel is its
lack of poetry, a
bunch of words cast
in a very low budget
production in a piece
that, with such flourishes
as enjambment (as
costume) and a virtual
virtual page (the set)
to have it be pretending
or acting as if a poem.
i like to think about the
difference between
assimilated facts like
this pretending to be
a poem versus something
i write believing in the poem
of it all as i write it, but there
is no real difference in the ways
i describe given that in my mind
simply to dub something one writes
a poem is to make it one. these
are simply facts for me, the way
in which i live them, and with
simplicity and ease placed
upon the page, thrown
into it as i type the
words, read through,
reread, make all of
whatever flourishes i
do to add the pretense
of poetry. and with
regard to my participation
in these art forms as
critic and/or audience
member (this is my way
to differentiate for you as
i do not often think of
myself while watching
movies or television
or dramatic productions
as floating, as i obviously
do, between most often a
critic, wondering as i watch
how it has been made, how
that creation either turns
me on or off and why, thinking
about the artistry and effort
of many individuals and the
vastly different role each had
in creation of what i'm watching.
but i am aware that i do this,
that i'm most often evaluating
in a bit of a traditionally critical
way (not as audience member
but with curiosity regarding
each part of the collaboration,
actively assessing each and
all as the piece unfolds), but
also sometimes getting just
caught in its world, that
original appeal of immersing
myself in the other worlds.
utilizing each piece as if it
were not really a means of
escape as much as a way
to get an education about
an art form or art itself or
the history of humankind.
i have become aware of these
simulatenous and back and
forth ways of experiencing.
it has become integral to
my life, these two ways of
experiencing the art forms.
and this is a way of being
that i am happy with, that
does me well, in my opinion,
and i cannot imagine dispensing
with one or the other way of
experiencing such things.
but i do clearly spend
most of my time,
i believe, outside
of the story as it is in
progressing, hovering
over it so as to obsess
and assess and relish
each and every part
made by each and
every individual, seen
and unseen, that
altogether make
a work of art.
as they are lived.
but what i can say
is i’m thrilled to be
on either side, so
i float around as critic
and audience participant,
sometimes simultaneously,
be more often probably focusing
more on one or the other, that is,
either concentrating wholly on the
world itself and feeling within that world
or as a critic noting each part that has
gone into it, observing and making
assessments, placing scores, and
making my little arguments
to justify whatever i think i know
or see based on these observations.
i think should leave it at that, these
words i’ve written about how i am
when i watch cinema, television or
stage production, so as to leave this
dudded up actor of a pretend poem
more statement and less opinion.
less a poem then a taking up of
the airwaves or of your time
to tell you something of me
without leaning on bias
and such. so there.

mmmmdcxxxvi

trading in this reality microscope
for a magnifying glass

instead of spending
day after day and
night after night
trying to come to

the most robust
conclusions about
what’s going on,
regarding what’s

real and what’s
not. problem is
the more i learn

about the truth,

the more assured i 
am of wanting nothing 

more than to burn the
entirety of it down.

mmmmdcxxxv

Are pervs prudes?

sounds like a ridiculous
question, but at its surface,
might we agree that,
statistically, as a base,

a scientific-ish formula
upon which we might
most assuredly find a
solid consensus, exists,

might be gleaned in order
to put such a statement to
test? does it not follow that,
given our numbers, at least

a subset of one exists within
the other? an equation

built to generate

accurate numbers

would, of course, depend 

significantly upon how we
define the words perv

and prude. and i’m no

scientist (despite my
credentials), but, personally,
i figure the statement holds 

true for a vast majority.  but

that’s just one guy’s opinion.

i’m interested in learning
what you think: do we
even need science?

mmmmdcxxxiv

brightest lotuses

the president

of the stars and

stripes is in thailand

with mike white and

parker posey. i wake up

with the meaning of dreams.

‘tim, is something going on?’

you never know who’ll show

on your favorite anything.

there’s an american ex

press advertisement

until the screen

that holds the

bottom of my

bed up (the

foot bottom)

hisses like it’s

been snake-

bitten, then,

to my eyes’

surprise

(i’ve peeled

’em) goes

black. the

rest in me

scoots off

before the

beans grind—

grounded

like a rocket.

i’ll never even

be another

whodunnit.

tears rollin’

like credits,

down, down.

a heart goes

boom until

abloom.

is it mine?

this murder

of a has-been.

mmmmdcxxxiii

da feet of da duck

exhaustion is brutal
this summer ain’t green
i’m tired like my head axe
times daddy’s but mean

mmmmdcxxxii

Two Laughing Hyenas

I often find
myself trying
to be funny.

What I’m
saying—what
I just said—

is that I’m
on occasion,
or on quite 

the occasion,
in fact....
Wait,

did I just
alter that?
Facts, by

the way,
are in
alterable.

But are
they?
Shoot,

all I was
wanting to
tell you was,

and most
likely too
often, I

find myself
attempting
to be funny.

And then,
when I think
about it, that

so-called
funny time,
in retrospect,

it wasn’t (that?)
funny at all.
How far away,

I wonder,
is ‘so-called
funny’ from

hilarious?

mmmmdcxxxi

the americas

a peruvian stairwell,

a liter of san luis agua

y yo

mmmmdcxxx

occasionally,

i am
willing
to forgive.

or, if i’m
being as
objective

and as
honest
as i can

muster…
all too often.

mmmmdcxxix

selling out right

now that two of
my heroes have
apparently sold
out for some

technology
green, i have
2 things to
say: 1, fuck

you, spike;
and fuck you,
pedro! and
secondly,

wowza! go now!
make real cinema
together! i so
love you guys!

(and thirdly,

hello, now we

all know that 

burt reynolds

is alive

and well.)

mmmmdcxxviii

Fear of Flying

My thoughts
flicker at light
speed, create
mangled images
that come and go
so quickly that I
can’t quite make
out what’s depicted
in the horrors of
each, jangling
my nerves so
that my stomach
does somersaults.
Soon I will soar
into the unknown
at what might as
well be the 

same velocity.

mmmmdcxxvii

moths lovetap the screen
          —William Corbett

which sounds exotic,
doesn’t it? I’m on
pins & needles w/
excitement at the
moment about
going somewhere
I’ve never been
before: the lower
hemisphere of
this planet.
I haven’t left
the San Francisco
Bay Area in, it’ll
be ten solid years
in a few short months.
I haven’t been in an
airplane in nearly 15.
Flying scares me into
a terror. At some point
I dispensed with that fear,
turned 40 in Paris, and flew
all over the place in a mere
3-year period. This has be
come too confessional; I
feel so old and embarrassed
and small. And my mind
is stirring so that I can’t
focus on a thing. It’ll be
a wonder if I make it on

to the airplane this afternoon.

All this humiliation is to say
that by the time I get back,
in some 17 days, I hope to
be rid of the anxiety that
dwells within all of these
thoughts, to have perhaps
recaptured a bit of my
youthful adventurous
gung-ho, ending the
standstill of the last
10 or so years and
moving into the
giddiest period
ever. And may
it last and last,
never stop, even.
Well, that may be
a bit too much.
But I do hope
this trip helps
me look at the
past 10 years
without thinking
it was all less than
living, even and
especially if by
comparison 
what comes
next diminishes it,

puts it in its place,

shows me clearly

how I could not 

have gotten here

from there.

mmmmdcxxvi

Feelings Make Sense

Feelings make sense
is illogical, nonsensical.

I, of course, can empathize
with such polarity. I mean,

I can be just as perplexed as
the rest of you with it, but still,

I’m a Gemini. The fluidity
that is me is not something

I thought I’d ever quite
think of in the way that this

sentence is expressing. I
did drag once. What does

that have to do with any
thing? When I did, what

I wore was an ensemble 

an ex let me borrow

that he had picked up sev

eral years previous.  It was

the costume of a particular
pumpkin-themed anime 

character. Or themed with the

fruit the color of which shares

that pinkish-orangish color 

with traditional pumpkins. Is that 

an impossible juxtaposition of hues? 

If so, it’s apropos, I suppose. I’m too

exhausted to even wonder at it....
Actually, I lied before. I did what

I consider ‘drag’ twice. The
first time was as that pumpkin

manga character (it had a 
pinkish-orange hooped miniskirt)

one Halloween in the mid-2000’s.
The second time was a couple

of years after the first time,
only this time, also Halloween,

I wore a costume described as
American Civil War Nurse that

I’d picked up at some party store
the day of. But not one of the 

folks with whom I attended that 

party, hosted at my apartment

(therefore the guests would’ve 

known me), would ever even

remember that I was there, 

much less what I was wearing.

mmmmdcxxv

Sandpaper Bluffs

They said don’t be so truthful they said
be yourself they said shut up and let me
go they said the future is dim. I can’t
see a thing on the horizon: north, south

east and west. Age, inevitably. This isn’t
about me. They said eat your whole plate
people are starving they said take out
the garbage they said make your bed

they said something about flipping a coin
onto the regulation wool blanket. Boy
Scouts pitch tents before the snow
comes down. Boys like chocolate, too.

There’s an old tree that juts from the
peak of the bluff. One might climb it
to escape the bullies who pack gravel
into their snowballs, stretch comfortably

upon its limbs, take in all there is to see,
which is more than a kid might’ve ever
seen, a colossal vista dusted not-so-
slightly in powdered sugar, sure, one

might, as the land brightens and the
snow switches to sleet that clings like an
adolescent to the tree that juts from the
peak of some obscure childhood monolith.

mmmmdcxxiv

and why

on earth

would you

ask that?

he somehow

manages to

ask while

screwing

in a new

set of

nuts

mmmmdcxxiii

Limbo Pickle

I wrote this at the top of my drafts
document for this month, which is
a page or place that I reserve for titles
that randomly land between my ears

with at least some conviction or have
a look, a feel or a sound to which
I am attracted. There never seem
to be a dearth of these sexy juxta

positions. Or quotes I come across in
hopes of the perfect upcoming epigraph.
Sometimes I just grab a title or a quote
and without an ounce of forethought

go from there. In that way, it’s just
another parameter, a way to hone
from the top of the process. Occ
asionally, I’ve been doing that

thing that most of my more seasoned
compatriots always would relay (in
tortured manners) their own versions,
where I keep glimpsing one of those

titles or quotes, and for weeks there’s
this thing that sort of grows, like a
planted seed or a new explosion on
the horizon or a tumor or a sleek

blueprint by the latest poet-architect
sensation. I rarely build that slowly,
but when I do, well, I cannot say a piece 

built slowly in my head in that manner, one

that takes its time toward a possible
existence, is any better than one
composed like this one, in which I’ve
grabbed the title and just immediately

run with it. Also, because pickles came
up in conversation just earlier today
with the person who sits at the center
of my universe. That bit of dialog was 

close enough to pure serendipity that 

the urge simply could not be resisted.

mmmmdcxxii

A Hard Look

Saturday night before
the flight. How could I
have been dancing just
this morning; same old

haunt, sparse crowd,
but the music bounced
and zipped from speaker
to floor to boxes where

the boys dance and off
the mirror whereupon one
might gaze into a boxed
infinity arrayed with disco

lights? I wonder what
Sunday morning will bring.

mmmmdcxxi

More Colours (lxvi)

bent into knots by this day.
each word i type limited by my own rules,
a game which now has me
carrying an extra burden as i’m here
hyperventilating—

when there are so many disappointments
and things requiring a goodly amount of pugilism—and there’s
less and less room for me to move around in my own home—can barely move...to
know there’ll be tomorrow. when things once relied upon require a daring leap of faith—

mmmmdcxx

More Colours (lxv)

     What angel do you carry hidden in your cheek
                                                  —Jack Spicer

some say it was his heathen tongue that was his
undoing. no, it was
not. a week before his great fall he fired all
seventy-seven of the comedians, the maudlin
entertainers who’d written up to then every single sentence
that he’d ever spoken in public. he did not utter one word after that.

mmmmdcxix

More Colours (lxiv)

     Where would you look for my lifetime
     if I exchanged my heart?
                                        —Jack Spicer

responsibility to whom? or to what? to the
end that is near (oh, stop it, everyone!).
did i say something to offend?

finally! our hopes are,
like, dying. when can we all
agree on this one thing?
gigantic movement towards nowhere.

mmmmdcxviii

More Colours (lxiii)

jetsetters—do they still exist?
at almost exactly 15 years ago, i
could say i was one. i turned 40 in paris and
kept going for

about 3 years, finishing it all off with a
nice cruise atop the baltic,
docking in cities like

tallinn, stockholm,
helsinki, amsterdam, and
even saint petersburg. imagine that! me. on a

boat. to russia. after a decade and a half,
everything seems to have changed.
a lot of that is personal, my own journey.
needless to say, it’s been filled with twists, turns and
sweeping sudden unexpected
tragic (depending on how you might define that word) life events.
and now, not having been outside of my fair city for almost a decade,
luck hints at a new international trip in my future. i’m particularly
keen on seeing south america. how about next week?

mmmmdcxvii

More Colours (lxii)

to be duped by another poet. i’m
really not in the mood. so i do it again,
open the book that has landed upon my lap.
play with
its warmed innards, tickling the
cream-colored paper just
a bit. ennui is momentary.
love is eternal. or at least as infinite as i’ll ever be.

mmmmdcxvi

More Colours (lxi)

finally, now that i have
a little bit of free time to myself. what to
do? why, fill you all in on all of the goings-on. hey,
everyone.
del, here. if there are no

drastic events between now and then, in what amounts to an
estimation of days (like a week to two weeks from
now would be my departure), i’ll begin my first
international trip in a decade and a half. still, so as not to jinx anything,
mum’s the word on the details for now. stay tuned and keep those fingers crossed.

mmmmdcxv

More Colours (lxii)

how am i supposed to put up with this? i choose
entertainment. which is
right smug of
me,
isn’t it? so what if i’ve kept myself locked
tight inside my miniature hotbox for what seems like

centuries? i’ve
retaken the personality test dozens of times by now,
and each time i do, i’m still way up the vector: a real extravert.
baloney. i’ve sat here so long that the box has melted onto me. i’m one with this box.

mmmmdcxiv

More Colours (lxi)

aquarius is the sign of my one
queer true love. it’s true.
unlike my current environment:
alone. alone. alone. but it’s starting to feel
real, this life that is maybe almost so soon here.
i mean in the way that it has been real now for,
uh, FIVE YEARS.
man! it’s getting so close to a story impossible to jinx.

mmmmdcxiii

More Colours (lx)

best not to get too ahead of ourselves. these are
real conversations going on in my head in
every which direction, so that they
are multiple and
they are overlapping and it’s quite
hard if not

outright impossible to
figure out which pieces go with each other. in

fact, this turns the sum of these conversations, no doubt, into the
riddle of my very
existence, or at least this is how i’ve somewhat and surely all to
self-importantly begun to characterize all this
hurly-burly chatter. if this barrage of sound were coming from literal human bodies then

a reasonable question would be how are they getting any air. then
i remember it’s in my head this is happening, so if, as i’ve said, this chatter holds the
riddle of me then maybe the solution is call an ambulance i need to be resuscitated!

mmmmdcxii

More Colours (lix)

settle down,
kiddies! squealed the voice of no
youth, the
so-called leader amongst a motley
crew of cowards standing on tippie-toes in earnest just for a glimpse of the clown, the so-called
rowdy ringleader of around a dozen, probably more like thirteen, insufficient throwbacks to
a clockwork orange anarchic fashion from the looks of ’em, but to a
person, if one might suggest such—sure, they’d just hoodwinked the hordes—but
each of them in the deepest were nervously bristling if not quivering with no grasp, no idea of
reality, no clue of the path, the gut-wrenching future, this man-boy cult had just unknowingly borne.

mmmmdcxi

More Colours (lviii)

calm down, missy!
our father was already getting worked up.
remember, after all, that he was who he was and was
not who he wasn’t.

men! calliope always resisted. two women to a man and
about fourteen men to a monster. if you could call them men. unleash
zee monster nummer unz! a clown sprung from the cannon. and that monster was no
emmett kelly. but even at such speed, such heights, the world around us was brought
      all the way down, if not further, than the ground beneath us.

mmmmdcx

More Colours (lvii)

oh, we don’t
like the word agéd to describe our
dear amateur. “these lousy,

lousy words!” could be made out,
emitted—more like spit out dry—from
a rather feral and
taut-wired (or spit-swept, and not just at the corners) mouth.
here lie the mouths of poetry. this wasn’t spoken but did seem
emcee’d directly into the, the editors don’t think
rotten the most appropriate descriptor,

but as mouths go....
oodles of awful, the non-emcee emcee’d into the dog ears of
our hero:
tethered with countless red paper hearts, that joyless 
saint bernard. and tucked like a russian doll into the water-blasted miniature 

      barrel under its goozle, trapped like a canned tuna, st. v. hisself.

mmmmdcix

More Colours (lvi)

but, your honor ... — (
our eyes meet. ) who’s the
understudy in this situation,
newbie? nope.
dumb-
ass binary. do you think that’d even
relatively be us, be
you and me?

what’s your favorite cocktail?
and make it the best story you ever
told. nah. let’s instead have the
essentials only. yeah, man, ... – we
really need to do this more often. we need more
stories. more, more, more! give me one, will ya?

mmmmdcviii

More Colours (lv)

wax lips,
i dunno, dick
lacy,
dicks van dyke & patton,

marilu henner,
uh, memory expert?!
sassafrass (from an actual tree),
hot lips houlihan,
romper room,
oompa loompas,
outtasite! dynomite! and
mustaches à la the 1970’s

mmmmdcvii

More Colours (liv)

floodwaters are
on the rise! enough to make
us start to worry alongside the
russian river here in northern california.
-
look as an
empty house crawls down
a lonely hill, drowns in said
flood tide, which, in turn

carries that home away.
lucky for the home, its human inhabitants, or
owners, were away at another ball game.
very lucky indeed.
everyone else (humans, homes, sprawling clover) crawls a little further up the
riverbank. true story.

mmmmdcvi

More Colours (liii)

shalom.
are we on the air?
let’s talk about love. let’s
move our asses on the dancefloor after 4am
o’clock all the way to at least
noon or maybe the next nine pm.

mmmmdcv

More Colours (lii)

pink
is the first color that
zooms into my head upon feasting my eyes on this chip. i’m
zoning
as the kids these days don’t say anymore. a pink, actually, that
zigs (or zags) with purple to form an even more zippy fuchsia.
zoinks! awake now, i think this quite the color.     onward.

mmmmdciv

More Colours (li)

today was tough. it seems of late that
each day gets tougher than the next. in
actuality, however, this month, if things go as planned,

let’s just say that i’ll get to
experience events more positively significant than
any i have in a
very long time. decades, maybe? and i’m not
exaggerating in the least.
so, dear diary, with fingers crossed and mind clean and focused, let’s do this!

mmmmdciii

More Colours (l)

our paint chip named “octopus” is a
cute shade of dark lavender, it appears
to me. a purple that makes me both smile and slightly salivate.
over the years my taste changes, but more than any other color
purple has been my favorite color (sometimes it’s yellow, green, red or orange). i’m
up with excitement in a bit of a jump and manage (with too much regularity) to
slam against the shelf directly next to tHe bed in my tiny apartment. a magenta

       brUise appears on My knee a few short minutes thereAfter. maybe it’s a 

       momeNt to appreciate havIng A Mere 2 legs rather than 8.

mmmmdcii

More Colours (xlix)

wasn’t gonna say it, but
i did.
lesser actions have caused me greater
dilemmas. but we all know i’m a

human dumdum. is that
understated or am i? trick question,
chump. what do i
know, though?
look at me, sitting here most
every night, spilling
buckets full of words. or
else i’m listening to them. semi-content. or
reading them aloud in near darkness (i.e., w/o my glasses)
reed moor pottery!
yep.  (but only if you wanna)

mmmmdci

More Colours (xlviii)

here is
a little story i woke up this morning wanting to tell you, my
love. there was this kid, you see, who
fell out of a tree.
-
actually there are three stories i woke up
needing to relay to you,
dear. the first one is, please know, i’m
-
here. the second one, about that kid falling from
a peach tree nestled amongst three apple trees. that
little boy climbed right back up, never broke any bones, even to this day.
finally, there’s the story about our future.