mmmmdclxix

Something Different Happens

I don’t want to tell you anything
about it. This is a new sensation.

Also, I don’t want you to mention
it. Anything about it. That’d be

what you call a spoiler alert, and
I’ll have none of that. Sometimes,

of course, it can’t be helped. And
this is when being a hermit, tucked

into this hotbox of a coffin-shaped
apartment at most every hour of

the day and night comes in handy.
But then I must avoid the news.

And YouTube. And talking to my
guy, with whom for over five years

now I’ve spoken with, often in an
engaging manner, but also often

in a manner in which I take up
all of the airwaves, pretty much

every single day.  At least once,

but usually more often.  And

that’s not even counting all

of our texts. Usually he

doesn’t seem to mind, me

hogging the microphone,

I mean. But sometimes…

sometimes I can see that 

he’s grasping for any tiny bit 

of that air, because he has a

thing or two to say, himself.
Oh, how I love engagement.

Especially with such people,

the stars in my life, the few

that I hold near and dear, are
of utmost importance. On rare

and very special days a bit
of an upside down abnormal

thing transpires: he’s got a
story, sometimes several,

that he’s determined to tell
me, and he does so in such

a way that is at a pace I’d
call andante but it is abs

olutely deliberate. And 

what’s more, if there is 

any attempt on my part 

to interject, to comment

on any of it, he promptly
plows through whatever

it was I was saying. I’d
call that karma.  And

also, and most import

antly, it’s a very astute

characteristic. Meaning
he knows me. But these

instances are rare. And
a joy to behold. No

matter whether or not
I can’t help but try (to

no avail) to selfishly
comment or interject.

Oh, the chaotic balance

of the gemini mind–here

I was, at least at first,
speaking of my own

reticence. Another rarity

for me, reticence. The But

I am learning.  Anyway,

my reason for holding back,

for not wanting to talk,

had to do with the fact that

there’s another whodunnit
I’ve gotten hooked into,

and tonight’s the season
finale. And I don’t want to

talk about it, to accidentally
happen upon a spoiler alert,

I want to just experience it
without any preconceived

notions. But, to be 100%
honest, I’d more than

happily watch this finale
with the one person I quickly

and so tangentially began

to mutter on about above,

whether he was quiet as a
mouse as we watched, glued

to the set, or even if he was
in one of those rare talkative

spirits. I’d listen to all of the
spoilers that could be uttered

without even flinching, I’d
enjoy his company so. But

tonight, it’s just me and
my teevee. Now…whodunnit?

mmmmdclxviii

Just Your Average Middle-Aged Riddle

If you’re old enough to be middle-aged
you can remember when that meant
men half your age driving cherry-
colored sports cars with the tops
down and how that meant they 

were overcompensating for a little 

something underwhelming in the 

“bedroom department.” Just this 

morning, for example, a guy 

comes to a screeching halt

in his mommy’s driveway just
to tell his adolescent kid sister
“What’s a poor boy to do,
Genevieve?” Like the pre
cocious child she is, Gen
gets the words that mean
different kinds of generally
red-colored fruit mixed up

when trying to proclaim the

bright color of the new car
and is completely unaware,

or has conveniently forgotten,
that her big brother, who
Mommy insists Gen call
Great Uncle, is actually
the father the poor girl 

never knew. And good 

thing, too, given that 

today is Genevieve’s 

birthday and she’s dying 

to see what Great Uncle, 

whose sports machine is 

pristinely clean, both inside 

and out, unlike the family’s 

modern, elevated terrace, has 

brought her for her birthday. 

Uncle has come direct from

the charity car wash
(because it’s cheap
and thorough).
When Gen waddles
over to the car that’s
so bright Mommy’s
suggested she break
out the sunscreen,
else head on over into
the shaded verandah,
Uncle practically screams
something about no
fingerprints on the 

new wax job. He’s
no idea it’s his
granddaughter’s
birthday. Not
that he would
have went about
the business of his
day any differently
if he’d known. Mommy
notices the birds, how
they’re flying extra low
today, and wonders if
some winged puff of 

a varmint with who

knows what mite-

ridden disease has

gone and built
another nest
in the old
oak that
takes up
most of the

airspace in 
the front yard.

Her face is

the veritable

definition of

grimace for

the duration

of her elderly

brother’s visit.

mmmmdclxvii

Lobstering Consumer Spending

You’d think I was about the business
of bolstering things, but I’m so sun
burnt I am walking sideways all day,
sort of bringing my thumbs and
forefingers together in the way of
Mister or Ms. Pacman. There aren’t
any colorful ghosts, or Skittles or
those old-school bottle caps to eat
with my thumbs and forefingers,
but I’m so hungry, and I want to
go shopping. I was never a big
fan of shopping. Shopping end
lessly, that is. I exhaust easily
when it comes to department
stores or Banana Republic or
even Target. It was, well, yes,
I didn’t paint my hands and
fingers yellow or anything,
but they were hungry, too.
When consumers no longer
have anything to spend,
there is no easy means 

for which to obtain food.
And one needs to eat. I 

did the dine and dash thing 

once, during the height of my 

two year bout with homeless

ness (it was during the six
months of those years

that I lived on the street
while working in a cubicle
weekdays during regular
business hours. It weren’t
fun.) – after that job was
over, by the way, it was
June, and it was one of
the coldest summers in
San Francisco during 

the 25 years I’ve lived
here. Anyway, I was 

sleeping on the 

Franklin Street

sidewalk next to 

the Opera House, 

More on that

sometime, surely.
All I’m saying is,
how does one eat
when one has
no money? The
thing is, I know
ways. In fact,
the three odd top 

things that I found to 

be surprisingly easy

to obtain when I

lived with no home 

were: 1) there’s

always food to be 

had; 2) one can 

find clothes – even
business attire – 

quite readily; and

3) one can manage
having almost per
fect medical cover
age. And I am 

saying that each

of these things 

can be had without
paying a dime.
Or that was

certainly my

experience.

mmmmdclxvi

Poor Thing

It was more about breaking
barriers built by growing up
in one of those semi-ideal – it
really depends on who you ask

but if you ask me I’d say I am
quite appreciative of the fact
that I grew up in a rural southern
area with all of its mostly close-

minded stereotypes. There
was such amazing leeway, and
if you had always been a bit of a
goody-goody, if you waited later

than most it’d wind up being
something ideal to most every
one, your new nastier or more
well-rounded behavior. In my

case it came as late as after
graduation from 12th grade
and involved such things as

having a girlfriend for the first

time and not having a clue
about my actual sexuality.
It was the early 1980s in
smalltown Arkansas and

the curiosity, if even in the
slightest aggressive, would
pair with the up-to-now
good old boy naivete,

which created a bit of
a buffer. So suddenly,
add alcohol or pot
and it might just 

be possible to do
anything you want
with whomever you 

want, and when

there is consent, 

what amazing fun! 

But then comes
the second sexual

revolution, it
could come when
you’re anywhere
in your 40s to 60s,

most likely, I’d say.
And the first thing
you might notice is
what a hard edge it

has to it. And how
much more exhausting!
If it’s just happenstance
then that can be confusing,
but if it’s something you

find yourself putting a
lot of work into, just
tiring!  In that
latter case you’ll

find that it’s an
incredibly hard
climb, it’s tons
of tremendous work

and, here’s the real
clencher, there’s a lot
of preparation and
planning involved.

If you want to
make it really
happen, if you’re
one of those people

who generally expects,
inevitably, to have it
end in some action (my
god, if you’re not,

please keep your
distance from me,
just in case some
crazy notion night

arise), well I have so
little experience with this
second kind of intimacy
that I am as of yet

undecided regarding
whether any part of
that process is worth
a damn. But if it

isn’t, then what on
earth would that mean,
what’d be an approp
riate next step? I’m

so split
between

the two camps,
there are such

completely
different types 

of getting it on 

that, much as

I want to say that
it’s a treat either way,
I am just not entirely
sure whether there

is any need for
part two. Any
ideas on how
to live if one

opts out? Or
does anyone
have any al
ternative ways

to get there
that might re-
create the fun
and naivete

again, that might

make such a ven

ture more fun?
Serious question.

mmmmdclxv

The Joke-Stick

it’s a tool that
measures, but
it’s also a point
of reference. it’s

pointy and stick-
like. it’s not the
kind of stick you’d
like to lick, like,

say, a popsicle
stick or a fish
stick. it’s really
not something

you might act
ually use, like
a drumstick
(the ones used

on percussive
instruments
rather than
a leg of a

chicken) or a
matchstick,
because a
joke-stick

resides some
where within
my head, or
whatever runs

what’s me.
which doesn’t
make it imagin
ary, exactly,

but something
half real and
half unreal, i’d
say, like a

ghost, perhaps,
or like hunger
or thirst or a
goal, maybe,

or a bright idea.

mmmmdclxiv

3 Thang & A Tater

Drunk down w/
hogwash. Taste
bud stroke of
tanned meringue.

Potluck a hoot:
a medley of fruit
soaked in Cool
Whip, casserole

of beans green,
whimsical assort
ment of sandwich
meats. Pray for

a doggie tray to
bring back to
the shack. Zap
a corndog for

midnight
snack that
harks back to
a hungry dog

on leash who
catches wind 

of the wiener,
barks back.

mmmmdclxiii

If He Old He Ageless

Welcome to the future!
[Insert present year here.]
Please allow me to explain.
Go back eight years. Look

at my life. Take a picture.
Then come back. I’m con
vinced if you compared
without bias you’d find me

younger now, and with
significance. But I’ll admit
that conviction is fraught
with problems based on

personal perspective,
which lie today as much
as any lie’d be made
tomorrow, and more

than twice as much
as it might’ve yes
terday when I
was but elderly.

mmmmdclxii (2)

RB

I’m not the most astute, most
logical critical thinker. I’m keen
on saying that logic rules my

life, and I believe that true; 

but I spend a lot of my life 

on the less reasonable side 

of the fence. Most happily. But
it now occurs to me that I’ve
been wrong about something

I have taken for granted, taken
as truth, and I suppose I have 

my reasons for being so, for 

most of my life. Apologies for 

the obscurity of this thought, but

it’s a bit relevant to me. Which,

I’m now thinking mainly is,
more than anything else,
indicative of my age, it’s

probably something that
in even admitting would
surely diminish my

relevance, tiny as it
has no doubt always

already been. Hm...

Now that I am think

ing further about it, 

it seems sensible to

me that I not even
tell you what this
new and still

seemingly absurd
or upside down
revelation is. It

turns out that
I’m not that fond
of feeling tiny,

so my left-brained
sensibility veers
sharply to the

right until a
crash and burn
wipes the slate clean

and I lose track,
forget the path
that got me here

and whatever
the catalyst that
got me going.

mmmmdclxii

Secret Menu

Isn’t this fancy?
I’ll try the pie.

It sounds like
just the thing

to juice up an
evening that

summed up
and averaged

out seems like
most any other.

And off this air
of mystery goes,

or so I say, my
grip still intent

upon the chef’s
until tonight’s

surprise. And
to my delight

the air returns
with something

all but certain
fresh from the

oven and with
sinister sleight

of hand the top
of that special

secret pie’s gone
vertical and is

smashed most
messily over my

pie-shaped face.
Sticking out my

tongue through
sourpuss lips

I find it tastes
delicious as I

scrape a bunch
of it into my

mouth. Peach
pie—oh, my!—

I’d only now
wish for a bit

of ice cream
atop it, atop

me, I find
myself

wanting.
Me, still

here, but
with a bit

of pie stuck
in my eye.

mmmmdclxi

How Next Outdo a Dullness?

How turn a week of boredom
into a comedy in three acts,
or maybe five? When such

a fete is extra tough that’s
when it’s needed most. It’s
a quarter to two in the middle

of night and I sit aslant and
sidewise at my desk (which
I submit as basic evidence

that this life’s in need of
revving up by the humble
admission that by desk I

mean bed) and in such a
contorted anti-ergonomic
crumple I am typing. But

distinctly not revving, as
I—what?—I am at basics
just describing this ennui.

When one becomes so
practiced at shaking up
the system, at disturbing

status quo, then at what
lengths does one in
actuality need to go to

find it once again dis
turbed enough to spike
but even slightly the

adrenaline? Why must
there be this constantly
assessing, reevaluating,

so as to shift approp
riately with altered
velocity in a strange

or yet unknown
direction?

mmmmdclx

Fitness

Fruit
Loops!

An ex
pletive.

Stuck in
My head.

Like the
Fire alarm,

Now, 1am,
Life gets

Interrupted.
Emergency.

Sudden,
Intermittent,

These past
Three years.

Covid. Cancer
Surgery. Knee

Sprain (the
First of these

Real life
Crises). An

As yet diagnosed
Digestion issue

With upwards to
Ten emergency

Room visits
Which ceased

Over a year
Ago. Diabetes.

No more sugared
Cereal for me,

No Fruit Loops 

Nary a carbonated,

Soda, save zero
Sugar varieties.

Routine kicks in.
Pills of a morning.

Pop in to the
Doctor’s office

Every other
Month or so,

Anxiety
Subsiding,

Blood pressure
Regulated,

Cholesterol
Down, tap

A vein for a
Vial or three

To ensure
Clean fuel,

Engine’s
Maintained,

Innards aren’t
Over-taxed.

Meanwhile,
I’m still here

Living well,
Or so it

Seems to
Me, here

At the end
Of this chapter

That still feels
Strange and

New, but I
Know these

Pages they
Turn, this

Light, it
Burns and

I’ve done
My best con

Vincing
Myself

Life’s at its
Best for me

Despite the
Menacing

Moments
And the

Lengthening
Wake that’s

Left, the
Finite

Passages
Of time.

mmmmdclix

At Odds

At this
The end

Of yet
Our

Finest
Month

In
Many

Vanquished
Years

We find
Ourselves

Beset with
Such

Bright
Hopes

& goals
A treasured

Chest of
New

Beginnings.

mmmmdclviii

Minty Pucker

Hello down there!
You’ve hollowed out

Some new caverns,
I see. I’d like to

Address its
Embouchure.

Might I?
Once enveloped

So, the lozenge
Dissolved.

As lozenges do.
And when the

Doors were
Closed,

What’s
Left

Sustains,
Remains

Undressed
A swollen

Mushy
Solid.

mmmmdclvii

Slow Time

The way he moved
From one moment
To the next point

In which his
Existence
Seemed

Reliable

mmmmdclvi

Absent

Punctuality
My friend

Over some
Lost years

Having been
Here

Each and
Every

Year
I am

Gives
Way to

I’m out
Some ill

Reality
Issue

Until I
Forget

Have
Therefore

Been
Gone

mmmmdclv

Someone’s in the Basement with Santa

     How frostily jingle the harness bells!
                              —John Ashbery

It’s Christmas in the dungeon.
The cleaning crew arrives at
the same time as all of the
kinfolk. You, always best
at gauging each guest’s
sadness, go about your
measurements, pausing
after each appraisal to
scribble a few things in
ink into your graph-
paper binder. All
the sobbing not
withstanding,
we each love
the holidays,
and i’ts a good
thing, too, as
getting along
so well submerged
as we are among the
whips and chains (but
check out our tree of
barbed wire lit
so! it’s brand
spanking new!),
a sling draped
from the ceiling
garnishes each
corner, a nest-
ful of feather
boas atop each,
just for a bit of
equanimity.

mmmmdcliv

Baby Defibrillators

It is with wide-eyed ennui
that I type this letter to you.

What’s the word for the crackle
of electricity that one might—

when ensconced within the
inanities of the most mundane—

conjure so that it might zip
through your system just

enough to bring you out
of the doldrums? The

coffee from yesterday
still sits untapped in

the pot. I’d offer you
an energy drink but

that’s all we have
at the moment.

mmmmdcliii

The Mute Button

     The less said the more we’ll shut up about it—
                                        —John Ashbery

Currently, we both
have headaches
from having to
incessantly
endure the
sound of my
voice.
When
I grow up,
I’d like a greater
compassion for
the human
condition,
more restraint
and a predominantly
smooth and even-
keeled delivery.

mmmmdclii

The Green Thieves

The flapping leaves, unaware
of the ground beneath them,
tingle as they sensually whip
about at each other or, in
the case of the loners,
as they fold into them
selves. Each one
is half vibrant life,
half echoing spirit,
punching the elevator
button for heaven, having
long forgotten the moist
batter of earth from
whence they derived.
Curling in ecstasy,
these fledgling
cheerleaders
lift a broadening
trunk through
the earth and
its adolescence
into an ever more
world-weary
adult.

mmmmdcli

we took things

this hook springs eternal
see sideways glance of
knotted neck

pop’s sourpuss on
horseradish
this book

sings this cook
slings a most notable
hook that springs eternal

mmmmdcl

Carry On, Humanity

     carrion humanity
                   —Wayne Koestenbaum

Have I inadvertently rewritten humanity
for humility? This was pages previous.
Such outrageous grievances that forge

within us each a growing ball of rubber
bands with ongoing and varying tensions.
To further grip my entirety, a rod the size

of a pencil that’s made its way to the
sharpener but once or twice, is stuck,
horizontal to the ground, having been

thrust fully into, until wholly beneath, 

the skin just beneath the nape of my 

neck. “It feels as if I’m being primed 

for wall treatment.” Hung like a gory, 

baroque painting, meanwhile, at a local 

museum. It’s a tomb of some renown in 

which a conveyor topped to maximum 

capacity with fleshy gawkers of celebrity 

are moved through tomb-like galleries

at only the speed that maximizes
capacity from entrance to exit,
where each body collapses. The

bodies sit until dusk, when they
are bulldozed, loaded into dump
trucks and driven to one of at

least a half a dozen garbage
heaps that rise in evenly inter
spersed locations in the

distance, each heap 

half a mile past

city limits.

mmmmdcxlix

Move Me

it’s just a wish i whisper
into tonight’s pre-storm
wind. a partially earnest

prayer. for what might
i demand of the breeze,
of this bedeviled planet?

i move against it, the
wind that has kicked
up upon hearing my

useless demand, and
in that way i enter the
storm. every fixture of

the city, even me, gets
lit in azure silhouette
before each booming

clap of thunder cleans
the ears, blows the grime
from its grasp upon all

that’s good. and down
comes the rain to dilute
the poison enough to

move it, to redistribute
it until my world and i,
we’re clean, if not a bit

world-weary and wise.
thusly, mountains are
flattened and steadfast

firmaments by violent
gulfs or roiling oceans
      swallowed whole.

mmmmdcxlviii

glimpse

a small but thick white cloud
bursts into the big blue
boardroom in
the sky

i’ve looked up for respite,
an attempt to meditate
all of life’s distractions
away

that one cloud slides
across the invisible
long mahogany
table

until it vanishes,
like the rest of
the conference
room in the sky

and i assess the
success (or failure)
of my endeavor,
highly critical

until i finally
shrug it off
and think
of time

spent or
wasted
and then
i get back to

my various
unhealthy
obsessions and
transgressions

mmmmdcxlvii

Texxual Heeling (number seven)
                           (messages in bottles)

    You’re my medicine, open up and let me in
            —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


how do YOU feel about glass jars?

                                                             lol

                                                             I asked first

depends on how pretty

                                                            very glossy, cork lids

is there a nice view?

                                                            depends on what you consider nice

does oxygen make its way through the cork?

                                                            highly doubt it

                                                            but you can always make holes

before or after i’m locked inside?

mmmmdcxlvi

Texxual Heeling (number six)
                           (no cutsees)

    Come take control, just grab a hold
    Of my body and mind, soon we’ll be making it, honey
           —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


                                                                        people have no manners

yah generally i will have none of that

that is when i have been known to make a
bit of a scene

                                                                       get em grrrrl

act i scene i: “grrl get outta my face”

cuz i got 2 degrees in drama

                                                                      lol

but maybe i am turning over a new leaf

no cutsees but you can call me grrl and i
will apologize for being grumpy

subtle but solid

mmmmdcxlv

Texxual Heeling (number five)
                           (mapping the road to hell)

     There is something I can do
     I can get on the telephone and call you up, baby
         —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


this is the moment when we all
should have seen it coming

[insert Rod Stewart’s official music video for Passion, 1980]

please pass this along to
everyone you know in
hopes enough of them
still have any fight left

mmmmdcxliv

Texxual Heeling (number four)
                           (don’t wear a beard to the equator)

    Whenever blue teardrops are fallin’
    And my emotional stability is leaving me
        —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)

import the basics
export cherry

                                                     anxiety [seething]

                                                     it chokes me up so
                                                     i’m seein’ murder

and now the word is calm
smooth out your voice

                                                     smooth out your voice

and your breathing

                                                    your heat’s so cool
                                                    when i’m not

your heart?
in fact                                           in fact
it’s true                                         it’s neato keen

i wouldn’t lie                                  with you
to you                                           i want it

it’s like i

                                                    lost that little game
                                                    we used to play

i never lie
(except my features)

                                                   in bed

when i lied

                                                   in bed and lied and lied i

never lied

                                                   w / u
                                                   no not once not ever

i lied in bed once
for you

                                                  you don’t

don’t you

                                                  remember

mmmmdcxliii

Texxual Heeling (number three)
                           (an SOS threads the apocalypse)

    Baby, I think I’m capsizin’...
    The waves are risin’ and risin’
          —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)

earth to star jones

                                         upon some contemplation

come in star jones

                                        it has become abundantly clear that

this will likely be 

my last transmission

                                       among the moments that led up to the apocalypse
                                       there is one from which, significantly,
                                       there could be no turning back

do you copy?

                                      . . . .

no idea if you copy

                                      that was the last [muffled, indecipherable]

star?

                                     day [muffled, indecipherable] we—

that is all
good luck

go with god

mmmmdcxlii

Texxual Heeling (number two)
                          (a squirrely sandwich)

  Baby, I got sick this mornin’:...
  A sea was stormin’ inside of me

        —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)


          morurning

                                     a vegetarian hair

          and scene

mmmmdcxli

Texxual Heeling (number one)
                           (in 3 bytes)

       Ooh baby, I’m hot just like an oven
       I need some lovin’

            —lyrics by Marvin Gaye & David Ritz (Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye, 1983)

oh yeah baby i’m getting lucky in naples

                                                       lol
                                                       wonderful

well
for a minute i was

                                                      that was a lovely minute

it was


~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~


i dunno why but i just said son of a
picklebitch

i mean i know why

but i don’t know why


~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~


                                                       did you lose?

i’m taking it in over here in nuts about you

it’s a seasonal room

there seem to be a lot of squirrels

mmmmdcxl

Snapshot of a Conjured Scene

watching the cigarette-lit buses
exiting back bay station was a
lot of real stuff for me, but there
comes a time when things that

surely happened, when the distance,
from here in my gut right now
along the vector that goes back
in time some 30 years is so wobbly

that i know the routine: it
begins to blur out in gaps of
longer distances that i’ve
furrowed into my forehead,

a permanently-terrained top
ographical map. but today
i’ve managed a quick sketch

punched into the keyboard

of a laptop on its last legs.
until all i can conjure as the
after-image repeats itself
are the pacific coast of your

ice cream eyes, and me,
hunkered down over on
the other side of some
sort of table, which i think

is made of ice, in the
frozen back bay breeze
of my imaginostalgia-nation,
a scene that now has happened

but never did (yet weren’t there
consequences that still resonate, 

emanate from it?). after banging 

the event into reality i’ve clicked

the filter faded dreams. so that,

whatever the case, this is all
i now have left of it. and
i offer it to you, today’s

odd screening, more a still life, 

this latest piece projected
onto the silverfish-colored
celluloid that is the back of 

my eyelids, for a brief moment,
that has since faded, like
always, and would be as lost

as the dreams that throb with

clarity upon awakening that i 

fail to record immediately 
into the small, leather-bound
diary that sits bedside like a

lover or an old friend –
so that within fifteen
minutes to perhaps an
hour the dream vanishes,

wiped from memory’s existence. 

but this one is no figment now.

because i’ve spent a few 

minutes banging it into

history. i present it now
to you, my muse of the 

moment. i mean i see
you, i hear you. we exist

within this snapshot

that might live forever,

for always.  and yet,

that our paths never 

once crossed in boston
is the one bit of reality 

upon which I shall 

remain certain.