mmmcmxxxiii

colours (ii)

there was a yellow wood. oh, the
hinterlands (since i’m not from
england, as they say). this is

ridiculously pleasant (my attempt to remove the
on again off again from my title).
and what a title it turns out to be,
doe ray me. del ray me, that is. and so,

la, a note to follow sew. but that’s another lyric,
exceptional as it may be, but
slightly less “frosty,”
shall we say, than

the road less traveled. yet. isn’t this
really a note
about you and me? a few scribbles
verily thereupon? and
endlessly he goes, on and on, but about what?
love? and
endlessly.  it’s certainly about time.
delinquent is short for del.

mmmcmxxxii

 colours (i)

 but this isn’t a
 real color? is it?
 am i that out of touch?
(i find that quite feasible.)
 nevertheless, (i mean consider the circumstances)

 this is where we find ours
 elves [i.e., barely containing our elves].
 am i not
 seriously hilarious? well.
 everybody’s got somebody sometimes.
 randy? is that your name? (nah. haha.)

mmmcmxxxi

A Motley Slew of Others’ Utterances


   In the armpit of summer. In the asshole of August.
                                                                   —Chen Chen


   What you see and what you hear depends
   a great deal on where you are standing. It
   also depends on what sort of person you are.
                                                                   —C.S. Lewis


   It’s really helpful to just touch the earth cuz there are just vibrations there that 

   you really need. and safety!
                                                                   —Qveen Herby


   Swapping and cheating are as a labor of love
   for all concerned.
                                                                   —John Ashbery


   Thank goodness for alternatives to “penis” and “anus.”
                                                                   —Chen Chen


   The throng came on strong.
                                                                   —John Ashbery


   “cockpipe cosmonaut”
                                                                   —Chen Chen


   he fell apart, he rained, he flew, he sang—
                                                                   —Joseph Lease


   Yet, you were “splendid.”
   You have answered every question.
                                                                   —John Ashbery

mmmcmxxx

The Program of Unreel

The first day of class

was always a lesson

in humility. And she

thought she was the

professor. But it was

always the humility of

the person in charge

that had to be blown

up in scale. That was

the lesson. These no

bodies, these small

young humans, were

being given a task in

which none would re

turn. But before that,

there would be such

individual hell for

each of them. The

bedlam that this un

godly universe had

bestown upon this

planet, she thought.

Was she, though, not

at least a little bit more

satisfied with the life

that she’d been given

thanks to the fact that

she was the harbinger

of such horrid news,

rather than given the

poor path that each of

her students would heed,

toward the destiny of 

such a naive death, a

seemingly premature

end? She was. She

was. This could not

be denied, even at

such a time as this.

“Welcome to the

deprogramming,

class. I can

assure you

that you each

have your work cut

out for you.” Good

luck, she thought.

And the class

had begun.

mmmcmxxix

No Dreams Here

“But Pippa, you’re
frightening me!”

And then she was
awake, once again,

strapped to all of
the same monitors,

listening to the blips
and the bleeps and

the ticks and the
noises of paper

being spit, being
spewed, being

eaten, being
shredded and

being stacked
and stacked

until the crumple
folded in on itself,

flattening everything

else quite a bit, and 

then waiting for 

that moment when

what was then
piling above the

collapsed bundle
would be collapsed

atop of it as the next
ball of over-sized tickertape

became burdened
by its very maze

of roadmaps de
noting the glitches

and the ups and the
downs and the slow

rises and overly long
decrescendos. Esther

looked around at all
of this, but only for

a split second, until
the staff were on her

with a simultaneous
bombardment of

questions. As she
lay there, marvelously

able, somehow, to 

ignore the usual barrage

of questioning, she
closed her eyes again,

thought of Pippa, and
with every single part

of her that could still
pack a punch, she was

for the first time able
to make it back home,

to her Pippa. And did she

ever want back for good.

To join her lovely daughter.
Except. To relive that one

final game of hide-and-seek. 

The one that went the most 

awry.  She’d miscalculated.

The moment she realized

Pippa was gone, the second
she felt as if. She was scream

ing again. “But, Pippa! Pippaaa!!

Come back, Pippa! You’re scaring

the hell out of me!” She felt
herself uncontrollably re-enter

consciously into her waking
life, where she stayed, for

at least a bit longer than
the last time, until she

was able to ascertain
that it had been two weeks

and three days since the
staff had last seen her

conscious, had asked,
as always, in that bomb

ardment that was their
immediate questioning,

where one question inevitably
always stood out, more

clear than any of the others
being that were slung at

her all at once, “But Esther...
Esther, who’s Pippa?”

“Who is Pippa?”
“Esther?!”

mmmcmxxviii

Frantic Antics

no, YOU’RE the
jokester! not ME!
but you were (for

once) not being a
jokester. how
serious

things got (and,
between you and
me, for absolutely

no good reason)?
oh, hold your
hot head, kiddo.

how’d you know
i did that?! WHEN’d
you know i did that?!

then you both
scroll up as far as
today’s conversation

went. and reread.
and reread. you
REARENDED me!

i what?? you
heard me! and
on this goes, in

more odd ways
than either of you
can imagine, so that

both of you have built
a special fiction that
just occurred, based

on what you think
you know about
the other. and

you both know
a lot! however,
how these mis

understandings
have each of our
dear characters

out-glowering
the other: but
YOU said! hang

ON there, mister!
oh, no, no NO—
[unignorably

interrupting]
BUT YOU
STARTed it!

how long
this goes
on tonight

will be based
strictly on whose
sense of humor

is at present
more deprived
than the other’s.

mmmcmxxvii

Too Vague?

“I know, I know,
you want to learn
more,” he said, more

sure of himself than
usual, even. The
speaker detected

an eyeroll or four
as his gut sank to
the floor. He

nevertheless carried
on. And on and on
and on. Saying

everything and
nothing. His words
were there, of this

anyone in the room
would have been sure,
whether or not they

were paying attention.
But what of the content
of all of those words?

“What did the substance
equal?” wondered Charlotte,
who had come here from

her algebra class. “I’m so
sleepy,” thought Ted, who
in all manner of definition,

was asleep. “Make this
class be over,” heralded
the man in Harold’s head.

And just like that the
clock struck the hour,
the bell rang while

the man the students
knew nothing of, yet
heard his words in

endless repeat during
recurring nightmares
each had ongoing,

kept on as if the
bell had not been
rung for at least a

full minute before
finally seeming to 

realize class was over,

and the professor  

had gently book

marked his place,

said goodbye to the
students (none of
them heard this,

most were already
out the door) and
sat down to open his

desk drawer and 
select a book for
his next class,

which would begin
in about ten minutes.
By then Harold

the Warlock was
already home,
really quite

pleased with
himself, and
the world that

he had so
swiftly and
hilariously

created.

mmmcmxxvi

Jump Start

3:47am.
you say you
want to keep
a journal?

warts and
all, you say.
fine. let’s
do it. it

is the day
of poetry,
[this year].
those are

hardly
warts! do
something
worthwhile!

mmmcmxxv

Driven

I have driven

this country

from coast

to coast (or

so) several

times. I’ve

taken long

weekend

trips up

and down

California,

where I’ve

lived now

for twenty-

three years.

I’ve driven

into and

through

each and

every con

tiguous

state. I’m

just talking

about where

I’ve driven.

Flying is

another

story. I

drove an

electric car

all the way

home and

back (home

being Arkansas) –

let’s see – it was

two decades ago

nearly.  I’ve driven 

to Canada one way

and driven back

to my country

another.  But

for eight years

now, I have not

driven anywhere.

Nowhere.  It’s not

that my drive is

gone.  Or else,

this is the story

that I am telling.

My drive burns

hot like tar on

a freshly made

freeway.  This is 

what I remind

myself as I am

stuck here for at

least one more night.

mmmcmxxiv

The Wounded Optimist

A confluence of

misfortune had me—

it has had me, hasn’t it?—

for far too long. Still, I am

stuck in its craw. Also, here I am,

the victor who traded in a tragedic

downfall for nearly a decade of

comedic pratfalls. Oh, shut up!

Go ahead and tell them straight

that you spent your third

afternoon within a year

at the emergency room.

And dispense with the

suspense, suggesting

once again the most

transparent approach:

that a month ago today

you had surgery to rid

yourself of something

scary (note the practice

you have of being vague),

and that you are, while still

officially recuperating,

by all measures at your

avail (which are no small

amount of measurements)

free and clear of that

scary something. Of

that inevitability. And

so I make this clear to

at least myself. And in

doing so, why do I find

myself back at the

beginning, at a

confluence of

misfortune?

Ever the

skeptic,

the optimist

rises, looks around,

breathes deeply inward,

exhales softly until seemingly

devoid of oxygen, of air, of that

life-giving force, and there he

freezes, momentarily, for long

enough to hear nothing but the

beating of his heart. He stands

there, here, long enough to notice

that he’s hungry, as well. And to

realize, as always (as always)

that there is so much that

must be done. Aw, that he

thinks he needs to do. And so

he snaps out of it. For now.

A beacon of health, for

his age. At this last phrase

he chuckles, but softly

enough, and probably

rolls his eyes full up beneath

his lids simultaneously. Then

he clenches his fists just a bit,

shakes them both out after,

a one and a two,

gathers his focus,

and places most of it

on those tasks at hand,

with the faintest notion

somewhere at the perimeter

of his focus that the seemingly

endless list at which he must so

maim with checks and slashes

is but and always a finite list. 

(And what shall he do with such 

a peripheral notion as this?)

mmmcmxxiii

Other Lovers

And they said

honesty. They

said write through

the pain and the

ecstasy. Oh, there

are so many tales

yet to be told so

we can’t grow old,

no, we won’t grow

old. And so I give you

Lipstick and Lunar, who

were lovers in the war.

She fought for the Day

light, he fought for the

Dark Night. Sometime

after that, when the world

was settled down, at the quiet

end of their long cherry-floored

flat these two would lounge all

morning. Coffee and Ray of Sun,

that is, before they came undone.

They lived in times of hidden

lovers curling heads around corners

just to get glimpses of like-minded

eyes. And, yes, there are others,

there are so many lovers whose

stories never saw the light of day

(but Coffee and Ray, they’d sit at

the end of the flat and stare up at

the sky and, intermittently, into

each other’s eyes, back and forth

it went like this until around about

afternoon). I once knew a pair so

intergalactic, well, this is earth,

though, and what an excellent

planet. These two, one cool

and blue and wet and the other

so tall and built of stone, of tree,

of firmament. The two had known

each other for more generations

than either could count, they’d

found each other by meeting

and never unmet. One could

look out over the other’s great

expanse while its lover would coax

and would tickle the great looker’s

sensitive, craggy base. You can

find them still, as in love now as

ever, if you’ve a map to where

Boundary Waters meets Ol’

Mountain Peak. Then there’s

the tale of the long-distance

lovers, Ol’ Peak’s cousin, Mister

Mountain Peak, who rises most

high in the Adirondacks and

his lonely companion who juts

so sheerly, so gorgeously, so

austerely, way out on the

western edge of the Rockies.

If you’ve ever heard one holler

out to the other, you’ve heard

a most hollow and craven tone

that would jelly most all of your

solidest bones. Then, my dears,

the lovely pastel ladies, Coral

and Bramble, who keep each

other company day in and

day out, only, you won’t

find one embracing the

other. No, their con

nection occurs with

nary a collision,

no sweet em

brace, but

neither

will tell you

that this fact

is tragic. “It’s

just a way

to live,”

will say

Coral. “The

only way we’ll

ever know,” is

always Bramble’s

retort to that.

mmmcmxxii

...there’s fire.

Cowering under the covers

in the gigantic bed was the

poor Smoke Signal, his fear

of failing to get his message

to the intended recipient had

him crying big smoky, sausage-

shaped tears. This went on for

some time, which was enough

for Hot Pink to sneak in and

pounce upon the big puffy

blanket that Smoke had

been hiding away under

because he thought Hot,

his one true love, had

just walked out on

him. Ms. Pink was

such a trickster, he

thought, as he burst

from underneath the

covers all gray (with

a faint rosy tint, thanks

to Pink’s hypnotic aura)

until he hovered near

the ceiling with his

love’s body splayed

proportionately be

neath him. They

kept this distance

for as long as they

could, giggling and

cooing for the entire

duration until, unable

to take it any longer,

Smoke began to sink

like a hungry fog until

he became one—

Hot Smoke Pink

Signal Hot Smoke

Pink Signal—and

thusly they were con

vinced they would

commingle forever.

mmmcmxxi

The Basics,

     Bay, indentation, viscous rocks
     that are somebody’s pleasure. Pleasures that don’t go away
     but don’t exactly stay,
     stay the way they were meant to be.
                                                                —John Ashbery

being what they are,
the why and how of
living, would seem to
be qualities or values
that are universal, if
not scientific. but,
upon some reflection
and a generous chunk
of living, that begins
to seem a rather sel
fish perspective. i’d
wager this rather
seasoned view could
be put to test polling
a quorum from just
about anywhere by
asking the following
question to one and
all: true love or true
crime? gather up the
votes and what will
you find? while i have
yet to perform such
a study, and you
might scoff at my
method, or may
suggest my query
might be leading,
has some sort of
bias, who doesn’t
think that, once
your ‘scientific’
tally is complete,
a fairly obvious
deduction with
regard to our
fellow humans
would likely be 

that there are 

plenty of those

us who’d find 

crime preferable 

to love? but at
what percentage?

mmmcmxx

asserted with certitude

isn’t as redundant as
sloppy seconds. unless,
of course, you’re as foul-
mouthed as she is (i am).

gather ’round children, a
tale is to be told. it’s quite
taller than me, but way
shorter than earth’s

last gasp (egad!). mealy-
mouthed mop-heads be
happy, for sadness is
irredeemable. why?

’cuz liquid’s in demand (
take my scorched earth,
please!), unlike liquidity.
we take up too much

space within a thinning
atmosphere (upon this
spinning sphere) wherein
we’re soon to be vaporized;

wherein there ain’t no vapor.
“crepes or pancakes?” ask
the upper crust all crusty-
like. “cakes or pies,”

says i, my eyes so wildly
on the prize (the game
show door slides open,
johnny olson trumpets

“a box full of brand
new mildew!” a box
of brand new. bran
flakes were breakfast

once. now we get
our mildew shake,
return to the set
like strutting

turkeys, stutter
our dialog, all
monologue,
engagement

no longer
a human
bean to
bean

thing
but
some
thing

jean-luc picard
once wittily did
not sing to his
engineering bloc.

and the stars
shook wildly with
in the wake of
the starship. amen.

mmmcmxix

(Don’t) Shut Up!

Sometimes,
I am quiet
for what
seems like
an eternity,
but this is
not really
me. This
is out of
necessity,
practical
ity (I used
to have a
lot of folks
with whom
I could and
would freely
speak—at
times with
a fire in my
voice that
would be
met with
as much
red-faced
determin
ation as
I, myself,
could del
iver). To
anyone
who feels
stifled, I
say speak
out, do not
shut up or
down. I
stand with
you, even
if what you
have to say
is at odds
with what
lies at the
depths of
my convict
ions, my
most stead
fast beliefs.

Or yours.
I look for
ward to a
day when
conversa
tion is a
luxury
for me
once
more;
it will
come.
For now,
silence
goes on,
with rare
interruptions,
except in my
heart and in
my head and
on this virtual
page where I
speak and I
speak as if
perfecting
language
and honing
the art of
sway, or
this is what
I say to my
self, an in
ward mantra
that bangs like
cathedral bells
behind my eyes
and between my
ears. I’m so 

silent
for now that
when I am loud
I will be so know
ing better who I 

am, and will do 

so with pride and
without a worry
over where I
might could
quickly duck
or scoot to
hide—silent,
so that when
I choose to use
my voice once
more, I will
know with
certainty
that I am
heard.

mmmcmxviii

Not Your Grandparents’ Serendipity

Where were we? Oh, here.
For just a moment there. . . .

Okay, contestants, whomever gets
closest without going over doesn’t
have to spontaneously combust:
What hour is the golden hour?

How about next full moon, you
and me dive into the gorgeous
ness that is the Grand Canyon?
No parachutes!

This one is multiple choice, so
to speak. But it’s also first
come, first served, only one
contestant per hole. Ready?

Quickly, jump into the rabbit
hole you think isn’t filled with
liquid magma! Don’t forget,
only one player per hole. And

there’s only one hole that isn’t—
ouch! that had to hurt!—filled
with molten lava. Also, last
person standing gets electrocuted.

Alright, have any one of you here
ever been frostbitten? Show of
hands? I see, I see, it looks like
about a half a dozen of you. Ok,

all at once, press the button at
the elbow end of your right arm
rest [staccato’d screams shoot
from the audience]. Ooh, that

had to smart. We’ve been work
ing on an electric chair alternative
that freezes the bones instantly
rather than fries the victim to

death. Attention! Attention!
Mandatory breakfast in The
Commons. We’ve got our
best, freshly squeezed,

rotten eggs (a sprinkle
of charcoal dust costs
extra, while supplies
last!). Guilty pleasures

at every twist and turn,
I tell you. But, honey,
come here! Do you
realize that every time

you walk through the
spotlight, your skin gets
translucent and you glow?
Yep, the color of key lime pie.

Oy, have I ever gained weight.
It’s a—this is—I’m standing
on a—on a WHAT?  Why, on a
Geiger Counter, of course!  

This has been fun.  

Ciao for now.

mmmcmxvii

Big News

Excuse me! Excuse me!?

I’ve got gigantic news. I

have swapped careers. No

longer will my job involve

frigidity. No longer will I

chair the Department of

Scorched Earth. Who

here remembers that

duration of fertility

which we once

called Spring?

Probably not.

Nevertheless,

I’ve big news to

relay to you. Which

will, I hope, in fact,

I trust, enrich each

and all of you, my

lovely employees.

Believe you me,

you’ll feel a warmth

in your hearts, a pep

in your step, within

days, perhaps even

beginning right this

moment, a certain

warmth down here

where it counts, a

pride in your work

that you all once

felt in ignorance,

perhaps, but

soon, thereafter,

lost like the vapor

of a lake that, over

time, evaporates

into a desiccated

trough that looks

from above as if a

monstrous giant

punched its fist

once, and hard,

into the earth.

So here’s what’s

happening, listen

intently, and revel

in the elation that

you will assuredly

begin to feel as

this news begins

to sink in.... a)

Your blank

canvas will be

as if a walk—a

veritable airy skip—

across the surface of

the moon; b) Cellists

will heretofore be allowed,

nay, be required, to pass

your office existences in

uniform. These are being

designed as I relay this to

you, and I am giddy to

inform you that the

uniform design is

based roughly on

that of a monk’s

robe. Hold your

applause, please.

Hold your applause.

c) At the after-party

directly following this

announcement, we must

all meet under the huge tent

that has just gone up over

Parklets 24Z, 34B, and 81T.

While there will be plenty of

goodies, I have been given the

okay to relay that among them

will be bottomless margaritas

that have been infused with

the grated hearts of the

earth’s last remaining

mountain lions; d) No

more nurseries at dawn.

Rather, we’ve enlisted

the assistance of—well,

in truth we just today

finalized the purchase

of the company—the

hot, revolutionary neo-

consortium of artificial

intelligentsia, The Handy

Nannies. e) This one is

just a clue to a lovely game

we’ve in store for everyone

in the department. Ready?

The tooth of wisdom lies

among the ancient (tooth

less) stables; f) Jack,

you’re a peach. I

love you. And,

finally, g) Re:

the light that

enriches our

souls...that’s

right! Each of

you will be going

home with your

very own depart

mental lantern!

Yes, now, well,

let this all soak

in a bit, but while

it does, please make

your way out to the

parklet tent. I shall

see you all there!

mmmcmxvi

Heal

     What the world needs now is love, sweet love
                                                        —Hal David

thinking of

the week

previous,

the man’s

travels had

taken him

nearly through

the heart of

the desert,

where he

witnessed

a seemingly

miles-long

line of leathery

inchworms

making its

way through

the endless

dunes. today,

trying to keep

it all together,

he places his

small square

of cloth over

a few of the

stalks in the

giant wheat

field that he

has allowed

to envelop

him, reaches

into his back

pack, takes

out a small

tub of food,

mulligatawny

soup, in this

case. he sips

without a

utensil until

the tub is

empty. too

much turmeric,

he thinks. he is

contemplating

life’s paradoxes,

like how this wheat

grows in this hyper

bolic heat. how just

last night he drank

the nectar of a pair

of peaches that he’d

found in a shaded

dell. his travels

have not exactly

been random,

much as it might

appear, even in

his delusions,

the red flags

that appear all

too often of late.

he knows the sun

is setting too slowly,

but these delusions have

made him drowsy. he

removes the pipe from

his bag, realizing briefly

the irony of the notion of

quelling his delusions by

smoking from the few

remaining embers of

tangerine dream.

he places himself

squarely within the

milk way in hopes of,

more irony, settling his

senses, becoming a bit

more grounded, as sleep

inevitably comes. he

dreams of the cliff-

dwellers with whom

he spent weeks earlier,

was it really the winter?

seasons are such useless

nostalgia, he thinks he

sings as he slips into a

dream in which he is in

a vast and scorching

emptiness, wearing

tattered clothing,

dripping in sweat,

and having nothing

else in his possession

but a wishbone, which

turns out to be only

representative as he

tries to break it, as if

only the good luck might

prevail over the hand

that holds that shorter

end. it won’t break.

he’s worked himself

into a sweat trying to

pull the bone apart

before realizing that

it’s a sculpture, an

artist’s rendition.

when he awakens,

finally, in the heat

of the night, in the

middle of the field

of wheat standing

still for lack of any

breeze with which

the tall stalks can

commingle, he

has in his hand

the wishbone

sculpture. he

will never know

this, but it is

sculpted entirely

from stone

that had

been stolen

from the moon.

mmmcmxv

A Grave Mistake

It was in
the cards,

Jeffrey had
made a grave

mistake. While
it wasn’t exactly

a regular event,
Jeff cajoling his

friend Stu into doing
one of his tarot readings,

it seemed important
enough to Jeff this

evening to coax Stu
into getting out the

worn set of cards.
Jeff had this flirtateous

way of convincing Stu
of just about anything,

anyway, so that part
was easy peasy. And

Stu’s mastery of the
hopeful magic of his

set of cards was un
deniable. Stu did a

quick couple of shuffles
of the deck upon the

fabric of his faded denim
jeans that Jeff noticed

had Stu looking even
more desirable than

ever. Quick as the
clear skies in Arkansas

can twist with tumult
into an ominous, purple,

twister-replete storm
cloud, Jeff put this

thought out of his
mind and concentrated

on the issue at hand.
He’d been feeling app

rehension for some time
now and decided—the

big truth of the problem
which he would not men

tion to Stu—that the
apocalypse must be

coming soon. Was it?
He had to know. So

there they were,
Stu passing him

the shuffled deck,
as usual, with the

request to “open
sesame” – which

Jeff knew just meant
that he was to cut the

cards. And this he
did. Then he watched

as Stu spread the cards
out like a fan and asked

him to pick six. “Don’t
we usually do five?”

asked Jeff. Just pick
six, and place them

face up in a row,
right here – and he

drew an imaginary
horizontal line on

Jeff’s side of the
fanned out deck.

Jeff did as he was
told, and as he placed

the cards face up, had
no idea the names of any

of them, just trusted that
Stu would do his usual

astute assessment of the
problem so that Jeff could

decide how to deal with his
insecurities about the world

ending and concentrate on
those things that keep the

world, his world, going.
“Ooh,” said Stu, after

quite the pause, “you’re
in an arboretum.” “The

golden necklace!” pro
claimed Jeff. “Some

thing like that, yes.
Only you get lost

and wander into a
deep dark wood.”

“Huh?” “Yes, and
you wander this

wood, lost, for an
entire week. And

then, you find yourself,
finally, at a vast opening,

an exit from the wood.”
“And what’s this place?”

Jeff was, as always,
holding on to Stu’s

every word. “It’s
a red rock desert.”

“A what?” “Well,
the skies are clear,

not a cloud can be seen,
and it’s sunset, dusk,

the moment when
there’s a big halo over

the top of the sun as it
is being swallowed by,

in this case, the earth.
The lapis lazuli sky

turns the red buttes to
a bright orange, oddly

enough. A bit like the
orange that folks wear

in the woods or doing
highway or construction

work, for safety, you
know?” “Yes, okay,”

Jeff was lost in the
vision, so lost that

he had no idea
how uncomfortable

it was making Stu.
“Is that it?” “Yep,

that’s, um, pretty much
the entirety of what

this odd set of cards
are telling me.”

“Great, so it means
I just need to go

wandering around
through the jewel

necklace this weekend,
surely. And just get

lost. This could be
fun.” Jeff seemed

quite excited by this
prospect. Stu was

just sort of staring
into space. “Would

you like a dumpling?”
Jeff asked, “I’ve plenty

left over from lunch
in Chinatown. Jeff

got up to go to the
kitchen, even though

Stu didn’t say a word.
Just sort of sat there

staring in no particular
direction. Jeff loved

those hazel eyes of
his, and thought as

he made his way to
his kitchen that Stu

almost looked as if
he’d been hypnotized.

mmmcmxiv

Universal Perpendiculars

A generous crumb from your
red velvet cake fell into my

love potion. I’m in my Prius,
following you down this long,

winding dirt road; you’re a
quarter mile up in your pick-

up truck leaving a wake of
dust that cloaks and then

clobbers all of my bright
ideas. When we finally

get to the Dairy Queen,
we order banana splits.

They’re separate orders,
have to be, like we could

split our splits: I crumble
cookies into dust to

cover mine. On yours
you dispense a neat line

of mustard. I lay my arm
on top of yours just to

show us off to the world,
our bond, our differences,

my pink pearl bracelet
forms a cross with yours,

a beach bum vintage
macrame slung with

several slick faux
turquoise chunks.

When they get twisted
and knotted together,

somehow we’re no
longer at the DQ,

but have been riding
horseback through a

vast open meadow,
our horses both resting

now, their reins
slithering like snakes

upon the flayed grass
below their heads.

With a little jerk, I
finally break us free,

watch a smooth pink
pearl go flying over

our picnic basket and
land somewhere at

the bank of the lake
that is our lunchbreak

vista. The horses
neigh at each other,

almost giggle, but
neither of us notice

the horses or the pearl,
really. We’ve become

tight parallel universes
whose melded contours the

cool breeze gets to
know, but momentarily.