mmmmcdxcvii

To Be Frank, Art’s Not So Pat.
(IMHO) (but maybe someday I’ll talk pretty, too)

     Writing letters counts as writing.
     Writing emails doesn’t.
                       —David Sedaris (during a MasterClass ad on YouTube)

The man also says unless
you’re sitting at your desk,
[writing is] not gonna happen.

I used to wonder why everyone
but me thought him funny.  I
felt problematic when attempting
to go along.  Although I don’t
have an intentional fake
laugh.

Also, where I live these days,
where I’ve lived for nearly
six years now, I really
don’t have room for
a desk.  Not that
I haven’t done
a lot of work
at desks.  And
I continue to do so,
standing up and
walking around
as much as is
feasible.  And it 

is feasible.

I laugh when I laugh.  I cry
when I cry.  Sounds funny
to me, my insistent attempts
at being so transparent, at
being real.  I’m

straight up (not straight).
I’ve tried being on the DL,
but it’s entirely too stressful.

I have two degrees in
theatre, but not
being me IRL
is just not me,
apparently.

So WTF, David Sedaris?!

I have tried hard to like you.
Not in a play-acting sort of
way, though.  More from an
anthropological perspective.
Which requires research.

Do you do all of your
research sitting at your
desk?  I wonder.

Quick change of subject,
but sometimes I forget about
the impending apocalypse.

This thought comes to me 

while I’m sitting on the thinker.

Which, by the way is not a desk.

And now here I am 

taking snapshots
of dawn as it 

creeps over
my city.

mmmmcdxcvi

Love Lifted Me

I’m in such a state of
flux, unable to focus,
and this literally float
ing above the surface,

over whatever floor or
sidewalk I am gliding
over, that when I look
down I almost catch a

glimpse of the top of
my head as it basic
ally aimlessly floats
over the rest of my

semi-transparent
self as the body I
look down upon
commingles with

the automobile ex
haust, the fog and
the bodies that are
less transient than

mine. Me? Where
I’m going I cannot
tell. Always some
where. But this

destinationless
place that I’m
always moving
toward yet at

which, at which,
where, I’m not,
I’m never arr
iving, to where

am I going,
Where are
you going?!
all of my

everything
asks, think
ing SCREAM,
wanting KICK

HIM! And the
ghost responds
by gliding faster,
more aimlessly.

mmmmcdxcv

Stolen Fantasies

Not that they weren’t
pilfered already. Some
one told me recently that
Craigslist gay want ads

still exist. Can we fact-
check this? Of course I
can, but I’m angling for
group participation here.

Misinformation. Disin
formation. But I’m no
formalist. I’m just a
fantasist. A person in

sistent on an entertaining
imagination. Don’t trip on
where these thoughts came
from, rock out on the scene,

the circumstance. Tune in,
turn on. That’s my arena.
Or it’s mine now. It is the
play we act together. And

for that, I apologize for
my thievery. But if I had
to do it over again, I’d
pillage it all once more.

In fact, if you’d like to
collaborate on a little
more magic, just hang
tight and I’ll be right

back with a bit more
plunder.

mmmmcdxciv

A Tortured Life Is Not a Tortured Love

One might give up one
for the other. Or darker

still, live with one en
shrouded with optimism.

For that release. At what
point would I have ever

said that you can’t have
one without the other?

Not today. For now, I
might awaken most days

afraid of what the hours
might bring me. But

settled in that peaceful
hemisphere of my soul

is an electrical connection
so strong that dust daren’t

settle around it – see but
how it floats like a moat

that guards my crook’d
and hiccoughing heart.

mmmmcdxciii

My Redundancies

If I could just but
bitch for just a moment,
maybe two, my love life,
my financial well-being
and my mortality might
have a thing or two to
say to you.  But where
would I begin?  And
what, pray tell, could
I say that hasn’t been
said so many times
before?  So I retreat
and say that for starters,
most nights I sleep.  I do.
These days, at least.  This
tiny radar blip that used to
beep and beep and beep.
And when I reach as far
as I can reach I count
ten fingers (and that
while squinting).  This
extroverted hermit
keeps his own company,
unless by luck of placement,
like, say, at work, a place
I try to go from day to day,
where a few people pass me 

along the way.  Some say hello,
some even stop to shoot
the breeze for a mere
moment or two.  And
that rare time takes
precedent over most
others save for those
in which I’m gabbing
for hours with my
most beloved, who
lives well below the
equator.  So our
intimacy is of the
more 21st century
type.  But most of
this you know already.
Or probably not. Either
way, for whatever reason,
I do like to share with you
that which I most treasure,
alongside that which causes
me the most distress.  But
I digress.  I always do.
In this one-sided
conversation that
goes from me
to you.

mmmmcdxcii

An Ageless Couple of Yucks

Sick day. Slept through
almost all of it. Then
had a brothy lunch at
a local joint. Forgot

my phone so grabbed
it to go. Sat for an hour
in bed yucking it up with
my boyfriend who was

celebrating his ancient
brother’s birthday. The
ancient part was a joke.
It’s his 26th. His elder

brother. Which, if multi
plied by 2 and added to

a nickel, the yucking bf’d
find my age. He already

knows this, of course, and
we continue yucking because
we like to laugh at things in
life that are funny.

mmmmcdxci

Blood Pressure

If we could gauge the up
tightness, not strictly the
constriction of the blood
vessels but a certain kind

of...emotion raging thru
the veins. “Is it anxiety?”
“Yes, I’m anxiety.” “How
do you do? I’m Frank.”

Frustrated by the amount
of pressure you’re under?
Try Lucy Goosey. Commer
cials. All the rage until those

pesky requisite side effects
roll. “What do you do for
a living?” Oh, so that’s
how this works . . . .

mmmmcdxc

Oh, Relax!

I could do this all
day.  These Glück
collages.  What a
blast!  At what point

does one put the
kibosh on so joy
ously (greedily) tak
ing things in and

start returning the
flavour (riiiiight)?
Hit reverse!  I can ex
claim.  And I do, to

myself.  Even w/o
a Boombox.  (LOL)

mmmmcdlxxxix

The Day

If I put a lot
of thought
into it, it is

gone. On
to Sunday,
the bluesiest

of days (and
evening the
worst). But

if I skip the
focus, look
outward, no

interior rum
ination, a
swagger

might be
enticed out
of the hole

in the broken
jar, a kick in
step, so to speak.

Were there 8
days in one
week (or 9),

wouldn’t it be
nice to have a
couple of them?

Look out!
Don’t sink,
blighted week.

mmmmcdlxxxviii

Hamlets & Burgs

His airplane landed
in Paris, France.

He hopped into a
taxi that took him

from the airport
to the train station.

Drifting across the
continent in a sleeper

car was the best way
he’d ever traveled

upon land, he
thought the next

morning. He’d
awoken in Köhn

where the train
had stopped just

long enough for
him to hop off

for a bit of
breakfast,

which consisted
of a nice, wet

omelet with
gruyère and

ground beef
decorated

robustly with
lots of potato,

after which he
swiftly returned

to his car on the
train where he

napped the rest
of the day away

dreaming
intermittently

of being on a
snake-like train

as seen from
way up high

that slithered its
way on a map

through endless
dots with long

names that no
matter how hard

he tried, he could
never pronounce.

mmmmcdlxxxvii

Prayer

Peace, my God,

Who doesn’t exist,

Put Me in a trance,

Something mildly electric

That connects Us,

Fuses clover to the

Patchwork quilt.  Clover

Upon which a quilt

Is billowingly laid,

Upon which We Are.

Picnicking.  Not panicking.

Peace.  The chicken,

My Chicken,

Which I hold in my hands

And eat with my teeth and lips and tongue

Similar to how you hold and eat yours.

Fried chicken.

And how you eat so differently.

In the event of a perfect picnic there is

No judgment.

And We’ve eaten,

Stretched out upon this quilt

As unaware of it as We Are of the clover

Smushed beneath Us.  A patchwork of

Peace made whole by Us upon it and by

“What fine weather we’re having this afternoon!”

And the Holsteins chewing cud seem to agree.

God help Us

To a picnic every weekend,

And every day glorious

Like this one.

And once we say goodbye

To our escapism

May We re-enter the action

To find that the

Storm has

Subsided.

And there is Peace

With and without US.

A Men.

mmmmcdlxxxvi

The Baloney Dilemma

I saw someone online,
a friend I do not know,
suggesting that lyric
too afraid to reveal

itself, a poem layered
in secrets, is by its very
nature corrupt.  I’m para
phrasing to the point

of warping the strong
opinion all out of whack,
I am sure.  As for me, I
disagree.  And then a

tiny, colorful fish popped
up out of the drainpipe
of my kitchen sink and
flew itself all the way

to Turks and Caicos.
I heard much later,
from Katherine, I
believe, that it was

the best vacation
ever.

mmmmcdlxxxv

My Experience Was Different Than Yours

Some things in life are difficult.
Do you ever experience giddiness?

Refraining from using Who here,
What turns you on?  Do you travel?

When do you experience a heightened
sense of guilt?  Not ever?  Are your

eggs bland?  Here, have some salt
and pepper.  Now are they better?

Your exam results in a frowny-face.
How do you feel?  With whom do you

discuss this?  With what depth?  I think
about those underwater cliffs.  They

often light up on the silver screen of
my mind’s eye.  What cinema!

Yes, I remember how dark it was
down there, but on that imaginary

screen....  Those vivid, sheer bluffs.
Remember falling?  As we fell

together I remember feeling so
high that I felt like crawling out

of my skin.  But then I looked
over at you.  I know it was dark.

Too dark to see.  But I look over,
and you were so dapper in your

semi-dry.  Our breath was in
sync.  Inhaling and exhaling

together as we fell. . . .  It’d be
years before we ever reached the

bottom.  That’s when I blacked
out.  No more silver screen.  No

more light from darkness.  The
climb up took but a week.  I’m

never sure why I left you there.
Was your leg broken?  Were we

playing hide and seek?  I rose
from the shore a hero.  But I

know what I am.  I lie awake
most every night thinking of

falling, the memory of it, its
brightness, and the everlasting

solitude of celebrity.  No more di
ving.  Surely we can agree on that?

mmmmcdlxxxiv

A Hermit’s Way to Repartee

I like how your nose
scrunches a bit at the
sides as it rises when
you pause at the end

of a particularly gos
sipy sentence. Am
I saying, perhaps,
that your disdain

is your charm?
I am the kind of
person who shuffles
through crowds in

search of even the
tiniest glints of hope
from those who, along
the way, I encounter.

(Casting Aspersions)

mmmmcdlxxxiii

Extending an Arm to the Bleak and the Dead:
A Selfish Endeavor

     Damned and cursed before all the world
     That is what I want to be.
                                            —John Wieners

I’m fine.  Really.
Not making any
promises, but
it’s been a good

day, I’m not in a
bleak mood, I’ve
been out a bit this
past couple of weeks,

I mean, besides work:
Folsom Fair, Badlands
(first time in maybe 5
or 6 years!).  I’m just

thinking about how
John Wieners said “I
try to write the most
embarrassing thing I

can think of.”  Which,
to me, begins to app
roach the freedom I
seek at times when

I’m writing, but in a
paradoxically limiting
and flabbergasting way.
I do love to complain.

Or one might certainly
think so if they dug in
to my scribbles of the
past decade or so.  May

be not so much at the
beginning.  How long
did that beginning last?
Depends on how you count

it, I suppose, but it would
have been 16 or 17 years
if I start from that moment
I called myself poet with any

sincerity.  One can shift rather
dramatically.  And that I’m
counting on, and working
on, and I’m okay, truly.

And I do not like to com
plain.  I just do.  It isn’t

justice I seek, but perhaps
a bit of fairness, equity.

Or I really don’t know.  If
okay is what I am.  Or if
I’ll ever get another such
shift.  I guess, if I’m talking

to myself, I’d say You’re so

much better, that’s for sure.
And I can, with confidence,
concur.  Depending on how

I look at it, better than ever.
But mostly I mean these have
been fairly exhausting times.
As compared with the times

that were so stark in their
opposition to these.  And
I don’t mind embarrassing
myself here.  It’s one way

to stay a bit humble.  But
when it feels like humility
is all I’ve got...?  Well, I can
find other qualities.  It’s just

that some tend to stand up and
be heard, are louder and more
demanding than others.  But what
I really want is to, in the most

straight-up fashion, tell you how
wonderful I’m doing, or at least
all the good stuff that’s happening.
And I’ll get back to that.  I always

do.  But today I’m reading JW’s
Supplication, his poetry selection
that came out nearly a decade ago,
back around when I was blindsided

by a stumbling block that I tripped
over and didn’t stop tumbling for
quite some time.  And as I continue
to pick myself up and brush myself

off and—for what seems like an
eternity—climb my way back into
a familiar vicinity, I can empathize
with, and play the part of, the

tortured poet.  Just not endlessly.
I need my hope and my humor.
Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate
some of the best of us who so rarely

seem to find much of either.  But 

my heart goes out, it really does.

And with each line I find myself
climbing further and further up.

My Hero

mmmmcdlxxxii

The Threshold

All I had for a while
after 50, were pictorial
reminders of my past.

I won’t say nothing
substantive, there
is substance, even

if but fleeting, hard
to catch, hard to
touch, not hard at all,

really, especially now
that I can barely see.
Is that how it is?  It’s

not so bad.  I like to
complain, much as I
hate doing so.  Is that

how I am?  Always
have been.  Anyway,
so now that I’ve moved

a few years beyond 50,
have I gained anything
substantive?  A couple

of small bookshelves,
a bag to carry some
from here to there

and back.  There’s
a bottle of wine on
top of my microwave,

a tiny path separates
the shelf atop which
that microwave sits

and my bed.  I built
the shelf less than a
month ago.  In this

place 6 years, I’m
always running out
of space.  Substance.

There’s nothing living
here but me.  And the
stuff I’ve collected since

losing all that came from
before takes less space
than what I had in my

car when I left for college,
I’d guess.  But this is the
largest bed I’ve slept in

singly for any amount of
time (the only one, if that
amount of time can be

counted in a couple of
years).  And by far the
largest television set.

But still, I’d sit for days
pilfering through these
endless photos.  Present

day down to my youth,
and a century further
still, given I had the

wherewithal to scan
them all, even the
ones of my great,

great, great grand
mother.  I’ve come
to know the resemb

lances between her
and me, me and her,
even though I never

even laid eyes upon
her, given that we
were never alive at

the same time.  I
wonder what all she
lost while still living,

what she had that
might’ve been lost.  

It’s odd that I find her

here, know her more
and more, the more
I look at these photo

graphs of photographs
that live inside this
little box, so filled with

figments of non-exist

ent memorabilia, the
ephemera that keep

me company, build a
presence and have me
feeling somewhat alive.

mmmmcdlxxxi

     Cool wind blows in open window,
     I am happy being alone.
                           —John Wieners

But this contentment gives way to
desperation only three stanzas later:

     Won’t you come and see me again,
     please?

Given the source, what else might you
expect: torn heart, tempting death, love
spilling everywhere, mangled, almost
lifeless body on the parquetry? How

does this compare to this October day,
during a San Francisco summer’s hottest
week of the year, in a one-room home

that’s never once experienced a cool breeze,
either coming or going, through it’s one
window? Six years now of toiling with

whatever trickery that might exist when
it comes to ventilation. As exhausted
as the burning mouth of a tailpipe, all
attempts to move tepid air as it sullenly

refuses to stir. Unless this lint-grayed once-
white Woozoo fan blows directly upon my
overripe, mostly unclothed person and the

double-fan that sole window’s pane closes
upon in as airtight a configuration as is
possible clings for a moment to a bit of a
breeze stirring in the courtyard behind it

and the door is splayed wide open to
expose the lower depths of the city’s
riff-raff crammed into similar rooms
in tepid states spewing their infernal-

eternal nonsense all hours of the day
and, especially, the night (as I do)—
only then this classless occupant might
but barely feel the movement of a

few breaths of warm air crawl, say,
upon and mostly over the tops of his
shoulders, or through the glistening
hair that covers his forearms. Happy

being alone would be a nice epilogue,
sure, would it not? Would it ever! But
no. I still, however, can’t shake my mind’s
aim toward tomorrow without a tinge of

what, I suppose, might best be called
optimism. So, in camaraderie with a man
whose shaking hand I once proudly clasped—
there is always that. As of yet, at least.

mmmmcdlxxx

Self-Imposed Delusion

Now there’s a phrase that might
give you the heebie-jeebies, should
you consider it for a moment or two,
depending, of course, on your mental

acuity.  Those last two words, though,
might uplift, given their meaning in
relation to the original phrase’s final
word, one which I often use, aiming

for comical, when I say “Del is short
for Delusional.”  But am I just shooting
for comical when saying that?  Or is
there a part of me I feel might be,

irrevocably or not, incapacitated?
There’s a pun in that question, for sure.
How might one really feel about stumbling
around with one’s head in the clouds?  As

my hopefully lucid thoughts move further
in that general direction, it seems clear
to me that I, myself, would much rather
be delusional than decapitated.

mmmmcdlxxix

Speaking of Remembering


It’s the top

of the day,

I am slowly

gaining a

bit of focus,

and then

out from

what seems

nowhere, I

remember

something

I’d much

rather

forget. I

clutch my

heart near

the cliffs of

the banks

of memory

and repeat

the prayer

of erasure

15 times.

In hopes.

mmmmcdlxxviii

Getting Somewhere

Today I’d love to adjust to your reality.
Mine is just no good. What a turn-off
of a complaint. I wonder if I could
exist inside anyone else’s reality, a

notion that hurts my brain. Thusly
my process of waking up goes. Until
I find my attitude adjusted and mostly
positive, forward-leaning. Was that

mere fantasy? “Hope is a muscle,”
I keep hearing someone saying,
someone famous. I can’t remember
at the moment who keeps saying it,

but I’ll remember it eventually.
Most likely. I know what she means
every time she says it. But now I
just wonder, hoping I’ll remember.