mmdcccxxxvi

So long, Mister Smith.

It turns out that
Robert Smith can be just as
heart-stirringly depressing when
he’s just singing out the screen
door window down into the court-
yard. Somebody just had the precious
wherewithal to notice how his own (the
room from which he’s singing very live)
window is open just so (the window that,
I might more correctly relay, is the one window
that emanates from the room in which he’s crooning –
the one window that’s connected to the room in
which Mister Robert Smith is crooning! Never lose
sight!) that the room in which he is singing within these
5 stories of very small rooms (the courtyard, the unex-
pected acoustics – meaning horrible or fan-
tastic and everything in between – of the
courtyard [almost] smushed against the open
courtyard windows themselves – we are truly
neighbors in this, our transitional housing venue
where Robert Smith has taken to crooning from
within the very heart of our building.) floods the ears
of those of us within who have windows open to
the courtyard. There’s rain presently forecasted
for days on end; there is rain presently falling.
This happens in San Francisco. Is Mr. Smith chagrined?
That’s just a joke. I imagine that he’s immune to, if not in love with,
the rain, in general. As it builds upon or flavors his crooning.
Any nobody could stand anywhere in the vicinity and say that it
perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day, this luck we have with
being so personally crooned by such an illustrious star, here, in
this place, will end. At some point, Mister Smith will be gone,
but for now, and for a few days now, he seems not to
recognize that he’s the catalyst for such a unique event.
At a transitional housing facility. At MY transitional
housing facility. In San Francisco this week. But, no.
The final several weeks shall be more dramatic, I'd say.
(Note to self: is it time that I begin adding “if you like
that sort of thing?” -- no no no!! This is a magnificent
luxury. Of what kind I’ve no idea at the
moment. But we’ll get there. And we’ll all get there
together.) (Further notes to self: How many of the
tenants know who Robert Smith is? How many care?
I know there’s an 80s song fanatic that resides in
a room through a window directly across the court
yard from my own – or in that general vicinity.
Should I introduce the two of them? And is there a
link between Robert Smith, homelessness, harm re-
duction [and here I’m surely grasping] and/or
anything San Francisco that is relevant. Repeat,
is ANYTHING relevant here. Ooh, he’s still crooning this
afternoon. Good ones, Mister Smith. This is most
definitely relevant. And great ones indeed. Then
it hits me like a ton of reverb that I’ve been avoiding
you, my darling, for quite some time, even if you do yet
barely exist. But you do, oh you purple bear you. And YOU
remember that the theme at tonight’s disco-
teque is PURPLE ROOM. You haven’t begun
to think about a costume of course, much less
the concept for the grand entrance hallway (a clumsy
one, always, and yet the theme of clumsy conversation
that makes up about half of the after-party talk.
Is it that nobody’s high yet? Perhaps.). But I am
so swimming with, well, if not ideas, then notions that
this whole thing can be brought together for the good
of everyone, should something purple walk out of my
closet and say, “Del, I’ve got it.”… Well, no such thing
happens, at least poste haste. However, as if on
breakthrough, you realize that this is exactly what
you’ve always been working your way towards;
or at least sidling your career practically along-
side. (And I’d say that the crash details of this “intro”
are about to be known around the world. Or at least
around ours. And Mr. Smith’s. Or maybe not Mr.
Smith’s. He’s wonderfully out of touch.) And.
It’s your call if not calling. And I see this written
all over your face like a map so in wonder of this
world of potential that, well, it has a world, a geo-
graphy of potential. It’s your calling, remember.
Um, and your call. But do you realize this ASAP? (Is
it a new calling and the old calling simultaneously?
This would take a while for you, for me, for us to parse
through individually and in toto, I can tell. I even
see that glimmer, say, with fortitude, that it’s your
profession’s responsibility to emanate, if you will.
And it damned well will be your entrance. A
world of sighs all around.)

Time will tell how things turn out in this slightly
off-beat club in the oddest part of San Francisco
(for San Francisco – I mean, the club had been part of the
city’s mainstay since I was part of the city’s mainstay,
which began toward two decades ago now (not the actual
moment I pulled in to the city, but the moment I
began this endless party). I’d recalled with lots
of funny faces, the ongoing theme of the awkward
hallway that made its way from the slightly off-
kilter parked cars, under the little umbrella—it was
always at least drizzling—over the red carpet and
into the great indoors, and finally toward the beat of the
herky-jerky come-what-may that led to the dance floor –
oh I heard once that there were gigantic round hay bales!).
The event was filled to gala-proportions that night. Even Mr. Smith
showed up, something that had been a less expected part of the gamble.
And you, you’d found your profession, if you will. Even if it was
momentary. And more than anything, you found your entrance.
Life, we’d see once again, was to be grabbed by the balls and kissed
so desperately hard one wouldn’t know if it’d immediately be spit
up (life; the poor balls, etc.). And this we had made the good if not
grandiose thing that begins and often ends all things so fantastic.

These wacky words are for my lovely and exuberant...and gracious...
friend of 32 years or so, Tammy Powell

mmdcccxxxv

Inner Dialogue
(Don’t Look Now,
But I Believe I’m
Already Back.)

I did not have the moral rectitude to tell her
that he’d never left in the first place. “Not
even to smoke a cigar on the verandah?” I
heard this slowing, squeaky question from
the back row and knew exactly what to do with
it. “Not even,” to which there was a long pause.
“Now just a moment, everyone. Let me ask
you to each close your eyes. All of you, now,
okay? Yes, it’s dark now. The midnight hour
truly approacheth (as the man sayeth). You’d
all think it was a little bit like late night, Carson
having just started. Because it is the dead of
night. Now can you. Each. Just imagine. How
utterly, painfully, beautifully beyond sexy that
scene must have been? [Shorter pause] Man,
those really were the days, weren’t they? Gosh.
And. Oh. You can open your eyes back up again.
Thanks very much and have a wonderful mid-
night, everyone.

mmdcccxxxiv

Recognizing Our Gophers And Going For Them

Most folks have goals, a
goal or two, semblances
of them, maybe a sem
blance of one, but as
the song says (and
who doesn’t remem
ber this one), there’s
gonna be a heartache
tonight. Go ahead,
look at the lady or
gentleman you’ve
probably never met
in the seat to your
right or to your
left (I checked
and most of you
are onesies, so
don’t even sidle
me a lip-pursed
glance). We
cannot, each
and every one
of us, remain
so incessantly
contrite about
the structures
of our senten
ces. Leniency
will not be tol
erated ladies
and gentlemen.
And that’s no
pun intended,
I’m as serious
as cancer, and
I’ve been led to
believe that
cancer can be
pretty darned
serious. But
so can winning
the lottery, as
each of you in
this room has
the experience
to live and tell.
So, it’s your turn
now. What’s your
beef? What’s
this lady’s
cause for
concern?
Doesn’t
each and
every one
of us rec
ognize fail
ure well e
nough to
have the
word con
stantly on
the tips of
our tongues?
As a lovely
case in point
why don’t we
all grab that
tongue-tip
of ours and
in unison
say as loud
and clear as
we must (
let’s forget
about will
or won’t or
yearning for
the high or
the low
roads
for just
a moment)
and say—all
at once now—
PHILANTHROPY.
So what are
we going to
do? I’ll tell
you what
we’re going
to do. We’re
going to get
up, walk out
those doors,
and start cut
ting out the
vast majority
of human
tongues.
If that won’t
end the strug
gle, let me
assure you
that we’re
all goners.
What have
we got to
lose, any
how? A
bunch of
worthless
tongues?
Who’s
keep
ing
score?
he laughs
to himself.
Nobody!
he sudden-
ly turns
to address
his devot-
ees. Be-
cause we’ve
already won
the game to
end all others.

mmdcccxxxiii

It Wasn’t an Event to Invoke a
Nonconformist’s Cliché About
a Higher Power. Nor Was It
One to Untether One’s Wife-
ly Duties and Make Any Sud-
den Moves Toward Upsetting
the Applecart. But rest and
relaxation are nevertheless....

The inquiring and quite intimidated gargoyles
were the subjects, I believe, of the article I
was enjoying at the time. Dinner was running
a bit late, which is hot at all out of the norm.
And, also not unusual, the two Aunties were
standing near the gas hearth, stock still, in
the particular way they always loved to pose,
believing themselves so very hip to the “Age
of the Selfie Stick,” as they called it. Ron’s
dun-colored mastiff arrived at the perfect
time, spilled the entire bowl of pinto beans
and somehow me under our elaborately-hewn
(I the had a moment to notice) dining room
table. Neither of us had ever pretended it
was an actual dining room. But I was insis
tent that it be both a room and a site with
in which something akin to dining would at
least occasionally occur. Anyway, no matter
how seriously the belligerent Aunties were
when it came to the diligence of their par
ticular idea of hip portraiture, with their aw
kwardly erect and severe looks to a photo
graphic layperson such as I (okay, it’d been
maybe a 7-minute duration of immobility
thus far. But my god! If they gave out an
award for Best Mannequins Alive each Year,
well, they’d probably be dining with Meryl
Streep and not their petty “nieces” at the
moment). One bare shrimp the length and
(literal) texture of the gullet of an egret
makes for neither fine & dandy nor fine
nor dandy. On any occasion. While I
might be keenly aware that beauty is in
the eye of the beholder (that is my opinion
on that subject if it can even at all be an op
inion and not a fact; a fact with which I’ve
had enormous amounts of luck if you’d ask
me, but then that would make light of the
fact that facts are facts, I suppose — so
don’t expect me to budge from the opinion
that this fact is, um, a fact.), the poor gals
suddenly looked as if they might lose con
sciousness, like, pronto. For some reason
this thought forced my eyes to roll back-
wards, well into angles pointing toward
the depths of my sockets behind which
I’m to understand the very brain can be
seen if only a tiny flashlight were handy
on such unexpected occasions. Later on,
sometime shortly after my eyeballs flipped
back around in such a way that (and on
this I can simply suspect, as always,
never having any eyes but my own, of
course), in a somewhat more human fash
ion, I found myself staring in horror at the
still models of the century and their chitosan-
riddled eyeballs as they sort of scooted (like a
dog does across the carpeted room when it
needs to, you know, squeeze the Charmin)
slowly, hesitantly and, I did think, madly
at me. Needless to say we never made it
to the bakeless blonde brownies on that
particular special occasion (and of course
I’ve already forgotten what had initially
made this day so special in the first place,
but obviously they were here, together,
with us, and a meal was being prepared,
so something special must have been
happening at the time or within its pro
ximity. I felt a joy that cannot at this
moment be put into words (which would,
of course, be quite exactly: The Aunties
are leaving! The Aunties are leaving!)
sprint like a marathon into my head with
nothing less exuberant than sheer unre
strained glee. I’m struck now with some
shock at how unashamed I am of relaying
this to you. But, you know, honesty and all.
Ew. Well, anyway. I was able to control
my normally uncontrollable reaction, that
is to present anything anywhere upon the
visible surface of my face how happy I was
about this breaking news. In retrospect,
I’ll just say that a senior must refrain from
acting in any fashion that might be construed
(or, as occurs most often my case, misconstrued)
as the least bit giddy at your Auntie’s posing
so long at a gathering that you are hosting
that they have to do anything short of (on
this day) calling the ambulance to leave
said gathering a bit early. At the precise
point that the door was shut behind them,
I figure that if you’re going to guffaw, then
guffaw you must. So what if you’re elderly.
The horrid apologies can come later. (And
if you’re not yet wise to elderly women or,
I’m certain, men, then something guffaw-
like erupts. You can always just apologize,
say that you were just thinking about
something from last month and quickly
retreat to the ladies’ room. I’ve done it
all my life and it seems to work for me.
On most occasions, that is. There was
that one time, but never mind that. That
one’s a full story to be told on another
date. If we ever happen to have another
after this one. You don’t know this about
me yet, and perhaps never will, but even
though I do often go on, I don’t think that
I have I ever once told a story in its need
ful entirety? Which reminds me: on the
day of the occasion in which the Aunties
became frozen models (for a duration well
over that which any 80 year old should re
main that immobile and barely breathing) it
would seem to me that I had finally be
come a woman with wisdom. Which is
a very cool thing, I think. One thing
is certain and that is that I was the
hostess with the mostest that day. Oh,
and on a smaller but related note,
not even once have either of us, whilst
shopping, which was usually late on a
weekday evening (by which I suppose
I mean, in general, shortly after midnight),
the two of us, exhausted, leaning dependently
upon the handle of our one oversized but
mostly empty cart as it crawls ever so slowly
down every aisle at Target or Safeway or
wherever, never has there been any reaching
toward, or even pretending to even notice,
those boxes of bakeless blonde brownies.
They are simply and slowly passed, un
noticed much in the same way that most
scenery in a play or film might be. We
are by all means only pretending not
to notice them, but like most all other
humans on this planet, we’ve all both
got peripheral vision (speaking of oddly
and often unnoticed facts). And I
may not guffaw as I glance from the
corner of my eye at, what at the sur
face, looks and seems in concept like
a wonderful, wonderful thing. But
I let out at least a half-chuckle every
single time. A frequent event that
seems to happen to me in mostly
inopportune moments and ones in
which I assure you NEVER go unnoticed.

mmdcccxxxii

Clonk & Dagger

Aren’t there some folks
you just want to clonk
off? Like leisure tops.
Or overgrown bananas
(by which I mean the
walking and talking
kind; even though I
adore words that in
combination—or even
alone all by themselves—
make no sense at all). As
if nonsense could even be
gin to not make sense. It’s
great fun to define things;
and to invoke context. Esp
ecially when there seems to
be none whatsoever. Whether
or not we’re talking physical
objects, living beings or act
ual events. At best it’s
damned tricky to get
even close to defining in
any appropriate manner.
Out here in the wild, it’s
really just moment by mo
ment. For each and all
of us. Of proselytizing.
Of overbearingly emblaz
oning what we call wisdom
onto unlistening juveniles.
And smarts? Smarts doesn’t
necessarily help, either. We
can be ditzy or else just plain
(too) enmeshed (in the now?)
to contextualize. All I’m say
ing is that to really context
ualize properly is literally im
possible. Most especially in
the historical sense (as in
defining — so as to rank,
perhaps — where this
moment stands relative to the
future, much less the now).
Like words—like language it
self, even—context is never
law. It’s always simply hy
pothesis, if that. And as I
was saying just a few days ago,
wouldn’t that be a terrific
invention to patent and from
which to profit? Wait a sec.
Maybe it was actually Greg
who said that. I forget. But I
by all means agreed. One hun
dred percent. Ahem, well….
Oh! Apologies for losing track of
where and what I was there for
a moment (and boy did I ever!).
It’s just that I was in the mid
dle of practicing all of these
pretend sounds for my dreams
tonight. Omigod they work
like you would not believe!
And don’t be ridiculous, please,
yes, drop by anytime you’d like,
Just like usual. How about
for tomorrow’s circus? Now
that should really be fun.
I tell ya, those animals!

mmdcccxxxi

The Funny Part About Vengeance

If your piece of lover
put on my piece of
lover long enough to
move from the flirty
stage to the I’m-so-
effin’-entertaining
stage (each, of
course, “dancing”
onstage at this year’s
hottest circuit party –
remember those? –
which take place
when these days,
by the way?) (and yes
I’m just a bit curious!) –
long enough to grab
a piece of our next
lover (who’s one
and the same, but
of course!) and
all three (that is,
the grand sum of
all we’re talking
about here, am
I not somewhat
on target?) would,
you know, seeing
that bore of a ham-
bone in action,
create within
themselves (the
sum of the three
of them) at least
a slight enough
confusion that’d
perhaps dangle
in time just long
enough for the
first pair (re-
member when
we were a quar-
tet?) to get tang-
led up a bit in
someone’s stage
costume (some-
thing not a boa,
say, but boa-
esque, perhaps),
lose his and his
balances so that
him and him’d
have to reach out
in simultaneity, in
which case they’d
accidentally nab
a hand-sized chunk
(intact, but very
clearly performed
as a duet) of Sherry.
Ah, remember why
we call him that?
It’s because he
does so love
to be shared,
of course; but
also because he
never fails to
overtipple on
the actual
drink; no less
than, what,
once a month
wouldn’t you
say...at least?
(I would never
go so far as to
call it a problem, 

I surely needn’t
add. As we both
recognize with
strict clarity
that it’s just a
wee drinkie, if
at all. Unless
it passes through
those permanently
pursed lips; what
a dreadful show!).
Anyhow, directly after
this...chunk...of
Sherry has broken
free into So-&-So
and So-&-So’s
palms, one of
the S’s—or bet-
ter yet, all three—
will proceed to ev-
er so accident-
ally imbibe a
very large por-
tion of the boa-
esque non-boa.
I say they each
ingest something
akin to the size of,
say, Lucifer writhing
through an apple
tree. Oh, shh!!
Quiet for just a
moment. Listen.
You can hear all
three of them
pacing the hall-
way just outside
the door, as if
each has some-
thing very imp-
ortant to say.
And soon. Oh,
but do keep
the firmest
of grips on
this plan-to-
end-all-plans
(or vice versa).
It’ll be the
biggest spec-
tacle in town
for months.
At least until
tomato season,
wouldn’t you say?
Oh, I do make
myself giggle
quite uncon-
trollably. Now
don’t look at
me askew like
you don’t know
very well that
what I mean, at 

the very least, 

is never quite
so…purposeful. 

The funny part 

about vengeance,
a planet I used to
never find myself 

standing upon, much 

less comprehending. I 

mean even conceptually.
Those were the days,
I’ll warrant you. But
what? Oh. The funny
part about vengeance
is always who gets to
barf on whom. And
I’m here to tell you, to

witness such a spectacle
it is really quite addict-
ive, don’t you think?

mmdcccxxx

Hot Carrion Carrying On

The proctor
may have
decided some time ago

that there
should by all
means be a long ______

at the end
of the third
to the last line. The scoop goes

(and I can
just hear the
barn-bait attempt to correct with “the

skinny” or
somesuch)
that he knew all along, the old coot.

He was a lot
of other things
of course. Besides ‘coot’. But he must

have been a
hundred or so
years of age by the time of its writing. I,

however, find the
scene entirely
antagonizing in the hilarious sexual sense.

Something
written while
laughing aloud, I suspect. In the sort of way

that might
come into
play if, let’s say for a moment, the etched

barricade of
rubble might
be reminiscent of a morning when he and

a lover were
wandering
quite aimlessly around on a bit of a fog-ridden m

orning, amid
the mostly
illegible tombstones in a Boston cemetery, and,

to boot, they
were both
crepuscularly horny. Or I’d change that to just

one of them.
This would
provide the perfect sort of series, if you will, of endless

geriatric jokes
gone horribly
wry. "Yeah, them’s the breaks," he’d sort of

mumble, aim-
ing most of one
arm at a bit of a discolored (newish) grave in the mid-

distance. It’d be
the perfect meta-
phor of the perfect sardine factory penned by an

auteur on his
final escapade.
All of which goes completely unfathomed, most

especially
by the keen
centenarian himself, as he and the lover choke

and giggle
on their
very own spittle and salty spring tears (now

it’s the both
of them, I
suppose, and there’d be tears of contagion, of

course, it being
spring and all),
as well as a veritable plethora of additional and

supernumerary
but perfectly
normal metallic tasting bodily fluids; all while

the wonderfully
misguided meta-
phor resonates (somewhere in metaphor heaven)

while the 

two lovers
come to their senses just in time for

another romp,
another mid-cen-
tury, mid-Spring, early afternoon.

mmdcccxxix

Break out the Soul-Searching —
Holidays Are Thought-Fests

Idn’t it funny
How we all
Seem to climb
Our way, each,
Out of our mor-

Onic trances.
What a ludic-
Rous species
Indeed. If for
No other rea-

Son than to
Relieve our-
Selves just in
Time for our
Deaths. There

Are studies
On this, pro-
Bobably so
Profound
They’ve

Failed to
Begin.
Bobably,
It occurs
To me

Should be
The perfect
Name for this
Climbing out of.
The angel at the

Top of the Xmas
Tree. (Oh and
I love the X
of Xmas. It
Reminds me

Of Jesus and
His cross and
Me and mine.
Sure, there are
Idiots out there

Who think the
X completely
Eradicates the
Holiday alto-
Gether. I

Mean sheesh!
What it truly
Gives us all —
Well, me &
Jesus anyway —

Is something
To mull over.
And I ask you,
Frankly, when’s
A regular occas-

Ion to party NOT
Something to
Really think
Hard on. It’s
Inevitable.

Oh, and here’s
Another line.
Whoopie!
Idn't it all
Just another

Bring-together time
To wax sardonic
And such. Over
Every miserable
Line and such.

(I don't suppose
Miserable is a
Mandatory, but
Don’t fail to
ponder that

People do tend
To drink. A lot.
When’s the
Next one,
You guys?

Let’s just
Get it start-
Ed early for
Pete’s sake.
Oh.... And

About that
Pete fella....

mmdcccxxviii

O neat-o friend of mine

     Small white chicken friends
                    —John Ashbery (this epigraph, as well as the title of this
                                            poem, are from The Undefinable Journey)

“So? Did’ja get it?”

Apparently the same
concerns we have are

duplicated on the exact
other side of the planet.

Now’s a great time for
the exact other side of

the planet to be coy.
Don’cha think? Well,

I do. I wanted just
a quick one, but one

that nonetheless
spoke to somebody,

even if he or she
or they, I suppose

we can say now, are on
this side of the planet;

maybe even next door?
I’m on a deadline (job-

searching). Ditto and
Ditto may have just

landed one. Even though
it seems like I’ve taken

to simply speaking in
code, that isn’t precisely

the case. It’s my head.
Just trying to get some-

thing out. Probably
just about anything.

Hi. I’m at my new desk
(Thanks, Diane!) in my

new room (about which
there’s not enough time

to go into any “thanks”).
Needless to say I’m alive

as I write this. But is it
really needless to say?

There are a few things
in this world that are

easy to do quickly. I’m
speaking for myself and

in a general sense. Like
the good general who

may or may not have a
job now, about which I

therefore may or may
not be celebrating. This

all seems, on the surface,
fairly needless to say. But,

lookee here. I went and said
all of it. Every single bit.

mmdcccxxvii

It’s hard to say
with words

what someone
else says so

eloquently,
so easily:

my hero.

                    RIP William Corbett

mmdcccxxvi

They put
me on top
of the hot
dog cart,
which I
suppose
is a sign
of con-
fidence.

mmdcccxxv (2)

I am older
than you are.
But I’m not
dead yet. It
took nearly 3
years of burn-
ing to face
this. To “say”
it. Who cares,
right? So, when
you sing your
song about old
men, no matter
the look on your
face, I’ll think
‘glorious!’ I’ll
think that it
must be true—
my every dream!
Well, not all of
them. As for
my additional
dreams, tonight
the moon weeps
for each of them.
They will each
take time. And
a little bit of
death, shall we
say? Yes, death.
But what’s a
little death for
but to enthrall,
invigorate, in-
vite introspec-
tion. The pun’s
on me, and why
not? I’m not a-
fraid of myself.
Nor what I’ll
find. Some may
say that’s a bit
naïve. But not
me. I have plenty
left of my sleeves,
clumsy as I may
be at finding I’ve
lost nearly half
of what I was
carrying up in
there some days.
Goodnight, you
gloriously sad
weeping ball
of cheese. I’ll
see you tomorrow
night. And that's
something you
can count on
for certain.

mmdcccxxv

Entry Number
DM7cZ1406

“Suicide bomb, that!”
Says the guy playing
the elevator music
on his cellphone (for
everyone in the ele-
vator to enjoy). “This
can’t be helped,” he
says into the phone
for whatever reason.
(Everyone else thought
surely he was going
to terminate that
hogwash with “can’t
be happening, but it
seems these thoughts
were similarly spare
of any real foreboding.)
Not being a movie,
this sort of string of
incidents does not
lead to tragedy.
These things just
do not occur in real
life. Nevertheless,
the pregnant woman
began to moan. The
elevator inhabitants
were on their way
up. The moans were
barely a blip in anyone’s
mind. And they were
silent enough that it
did not seem disturbing
that no on was paying
attention. Visibly, any-
way. But each person
in the shaft did believe
they caught an audible
“birth” and “fuck” . . . .
Ah, mumbling. This is
most definitely not
what the occupants
of elevator number
five were thinking,
but how could they
not know, given the
cast they encountered
in the miniature fleet-
ing home in which,
come to think of it,
we all spend an awful
lot of time as its
occupants are zipped
away to another home
(whether zipping down
or up, as it turns out);
to one that’s a bit less
miniature and a bit
less fleeting.
Ah, home.

Back to our story.
With, I’ll admit, an
intended level of
suspense, since I
do know what hap-
pens next, even
fifty-one years
hence (as I type
this). How could
I possibly forget?
Who could? I
exited the elev-
ator and sort of
staggered to my
desk at my less
fleeting home,
after noticing
that everyone
else in the el-
evator had the
most unusual
sunburn. “These
people are so
not careful,” I
remember think-
ing as I stumbled
toward the coffee
machine. Pay no
heed to that. It’s
simply my job to
think. Because
I’m the agent,
after all. So,
at that lost in
thought moment
of swagger and
impending coffee,
whether it was a
bomb or not, I
instinctively re-
moved my phone
from its holster
(these things have
been trending for
weeks now; trust me,
just look it up!) and
I sent one quick text:
“you still mean the
world to me, nick!”
I hit send and quite
fortunately made it
well toward the
outskirts of floor
forty-two before
the massive explosion
on floor fifty-one.

mmdcccxxiv

like the rebirth of a hard fried egg

the lovers who look like
twins are exhausted. it’s
been seventeen years.

we keep talking about the
apocalypse. “the what?” i
always wind up asking.

my mom’s mustang turned
out to be neither death nor
the long goodbye. nowadays

the big difference is the swarm
of new late night talk show hosts
who allow her the ‘sleep’ she never

seems to need. it’s four in the
morning in the pacific and i de-
cide to rise. like frankenstein or

dracula, in a way, i suppose. stiff
and vaguely monstrous. who’s
to say they were ever bad. or any-

thing but the rest of us, a conglo-
merate of fright. they loved. we
love. centuries seem to divine

different definitions, different
compulsions, in the meanings
of this illogical force. each of us,

a monster, cannot make sense
of the dynamo that takes us over.
it happened. it happens. “some

parts of us are lived in return”
(to quote jack spicer, who says
the rest of us will remain two

persons). what of the parts of
me that others despise? the
trail i leave behind as a reminder

to any and all that i alone loved
wholly? loved divinely? you may
find humor in this at breakfast,

but by suppertime i know the
hateful grip of this notion has
caught on. ‘is it my legs,’ you

might wonder. “it’s my ears,
i just can’t stand it!” “it is my
pale cheeks in autumn.” and,

as ever, the morbid silence.
if we had a hearth. if only
we each had a hearth. we

could spend our days away
from thoughts of you and me.
and on the bald mountain

that breaks our twisted spines
each long winter. and then i
laugh. your grim lips at your tea.

mmdcccxxiii

Interpersonal Relations
(part two)

     ....throbs to the earlobes.
                        —John Ashbery

It’s “pretty cool” to get exposed to
fine arts at an early age, like Kid Rock’s
doppelgänger, we each decide, here in
The Quiet Room of the homeless shelter
in which I’ve “resided” for the better por
tion of two years. And then Mr. Lucid for
the First Time in the Six Months I’ve Known
Him, he’s my bunk neighbor, adds “and so
are interpersonal relations.” Nobody
had a clue what to say for a long while
after that. We made it true by just being
silent. But, inside, I’m giddy. Because this
lies at the very foundation of my value system;
which been blown to smithereens the past couple
of years, but yet clearly remains somewhere in here.
Scrooge just claimed in a very poignant moment that
interpersonal relations are, well, pretty cool. I’ve really
no idea where the other minds here earlier have wandered,
but I can hardly contain myself. Which, as anyone who
has spent more than, say, fifteen minutes with me
knows, is not that unusual. Biting my tongue
being near impossible for me. So it’s tough to
speak, and this happens to me next to never.
A couple of minutes pass (or perhaps thirty?).
Then Scrooge, aka Mr. Lucid for the First Time
Since I’ve Made His Acquaintance adds, as if he
had only just seconds ago made the previous
observation, “Yeah, and you most definitely talk
too much.” He’s looking at me (duh!). So the
moment is gone. The subject veers momentarily
to other subjects, like earthquakes. Apparently
one hit Napa Valley the previous Sunday. A 3.8.
I learn a lot from the guys in The Quiet Room.
And relearn just about as much. Things with
which I’ve been out of practice, like regaining
control of a sustained type of optimism. This,
and, another example, the art, the sheer necessity,
of being social (I’m speaking for myself here, of
course). I tend to usually add here that I’ve been
diagnosed with anxiety, am on regular medication
for it. Particularly social anxiety. But yet I’m also a
clear-cut extrovert, in the Myers’ Briggs sense.
So, I get my energy AND my anxiety from
people. They’re a necessity and a curse (to
which I usually add that I’m a Gemini).
But, this can’t be that abnormal. Is
it? I don’t know. It’s just me.
And every day is learning to deal
with it. I stop my meandering thoughts
long enough to listen to the directions the
conversations have gone in the room.
How San Francisco sucks. How it’s
a fantastic place to be (whichever,
it’s home to me, and I do love it,
or wouldn’t be sitting in a home-
less shelter discussing such an
absurd subject). Next up: our
favorite spots to sleep when we
are literally “on the streets.” Mine
happens to be Ina Coolbrith Park
(named after a poet!), a relatively
untravelled diagonal block on Russian
Hill built on one of those avenues that
give way to a vehicular dead-end for
a block or two due to how steep it is
(or how wealthy the neighborhood, I
suppose). My mostly six months on the
streets coincided with the longest contracted
job I’d had for nearly a decade, when (during
the earlier time) I made enough money to take
three and a half years off of paid work and live
the life of what I considered at the time either a
luxury I never thought I would have, or that of
a bohemian artist. I loved the park because
it was relatively un-trafficked, I had my own
cul-de-sac built of boulders to sleep within
(a fortress, if you will), and, night or day
it had one of the most beautiful vistas
these eyes have encountered.
I got to wake up every
morning, pre-dawn,
to the view of the gorgeous
new Bay Bridge, Treasure
Island, and my “home,” of
sorts, the Financial District,
with its familiar buildings
down below. As I spent
my last night here at the
barracks (as I called them),
a place appropriately enough
called Sanctuary, which
stands inconspicuously
at the corner of Eight
and Howard Streets in
SoMa, feeling the need to
record yet another small
record of my existence,
this more straightforward
(truthful?) than normal
hello to the world, or the
minute part of it that might
take a listen, I am content.
Tomorrow, I shall move on
to better things. Finally.
May it be an uphill swing for
many years to come. If I had
small glasses and champagne
to distribute on my last
night in The Quiet Room,
I’d send us all a simple
cheer. On to the next.
May it never be as
consistently grueling
as the recent past.

mmdcccxxii

Interpersonal Relations
(part one)

     ....throbs to the earlobes.
                        —John Ashbery

It’s 2am, Tuesday morning. We’re
six guys around a table in ‘The Quiet
Room,’ which is never really quiet, but
tonight it’s quieter than usual. New
faces, old faces. The crazies, the
dependables (such pigeonholing in
the crypt of pigeonholing is always
relative; more relative than you’d
know for a long while, were you
even stuck there as I was, assuredly).
One guy I’ve never once seen lucid
(he sleeps on the top bunk next to
mine; I call him Scrooge, but a
better description of his night-
time ventures might more app-
ropriately garner him the nick-
name Gargoyle. Yes, these are
some of the things that have
occupied my mind during my
stay here of nearly two years
but for the 6 months break
when I was working (and,
lucky me, living on the
streets simultaneously) –
anyway, this is my first time
experiencing him quite lucid,
and we’ve been bunk neighbors
for half a year. He’s the life of
the party tonight! And party it is.
It’s my last night here. I scan the
“barracks” (as I call it here) in an
attempt to envision this small tucked
away enclave of a room a profligate
(in the best possible way) cul-de-sac
of lasciviousness. Our “Sanctuary”
was home (apparently) to a bath-
house. In the Golden Age of those
mostly remnants of nostalgia here
in San Francisco. The men sitting
here tonight defy sex. That’s pro-
bably an unfair assessment based
on my own perspective. But they
do defy sexuality, for certain.
Except one, who’s a dead-on
doppelganger for Kid Rock.
And yet, he “got exposed” to
“fine arts” at an early age,
which, as he keeps saying
(and I certainly keep agreeing),
was “Pretty cool” . . . .

(to be continued)

mmdcccxxi

The days go by and I go without them.
                        —John Ashbery

Finding crazy means
you’re lost.  And we
all care not to be
too lost, with cert
itude!  There are
circumstances, but....
“The curtain and a
curtsy!”  the barmaid
would always snort
after pouring the five
kamikazes.  (She’d use
‘cinco’ for inadvertent but
appropriate 1990’s faux
multiculturalist unknowism.)
Those might have been
the days, ponders the one
who thinks he’s actually
in the know.  Prox
imity to the hole
is always important.

mmdcccxx

Short List Poem w/Actual
  Names of Nearby 

  WiFi Networks

O_BIRD_BOYS
The ALDER
PeeWee
ticklemypickle
Lmarcum
authentic
Manman
molasses
M flower
Dave
Standard Cognition
ThePug
memebox

mmdcccxix

Peripheral Vision

I was going to puke
once I realized we were
not even halfway through
the month.  So.  I’m truly
sorry about the spectacle.
But the fireplace is original.
Sometimes memory is funny
that way, serving no purpose
but to remind us what idiots we
are.  Hence signifying the value of
reclusivity and of running away from
hardcore emotions or refusing to do
laundry on do-or-die date.  Obviously,
there is an overarching fear that we
might break our already fragile selves;
become our own communal guiding light?
Nice lighting in any environment is gener-
ally helpful.  And nice is not exactly det-
ermined by the eye of the beholder here
(if you follow my supposition) (distantly).
A keen awareness of one’s environment
can be helpful, if not crucial.  I have
heard about the wide disparity in how
the periphery of each individual human’s
vision can be in relation to the rest of

humanity’s.  Deceptively tall embank-

ments on both sides of an intersection
toward which you are driving (one ex-
ample) before which thick vegetation
obscures an intersection warning and,
a few meters forward (i.e., directly in
front of the intersection), another shrub-
covered stop sign.  These are not life-
shortening or life-altering entities in
and of themselves.  Two or three nar-
ratives of any shape or size suggesting
logic via the narration of each.  We
play along.  People are somehow fine
with this routine.  But, as for me, I
believe doing so is the way of cretins.
For one thing, people get terribly con-
fused regarding their own role in their
own event; and especially confused, say,
when their closest friend is also at
said event, there is massive confusion,
in general, over who did what?  Who
hosted?  Who was the most fun?  The
funniest?  Etc.

mmdcccxviii

The Gutless Breed
  (circa late today
    to early tomorrow)

A little death
can be a lot of
fun if you take
care not to mix
too much business
with your pleasure.
Pleasure is fine,
too, as far as
that goes (Mar-
coni’s masochism
completes the
genetic injury
to the Marquis’
original chain —
et voilá! — it’s
more like a rev-
olution than mere
bobbysox evolution,
wouldn’t you say?), but
for the excruciating
lack of any flinching
or clenching (Gasp!
Whatsoever?!). A pity
so pat; a yawn almost.
Another dawn’s fre-
netic spiral through
the electric funnel
until (touché, voilá)
down it’s gulped by
the drain — right
on calendar —
directly before its
last (woefully mal-
content) belch
of the day.