mmcdlxxv

Once More, But This Time Make It Exuberantly Horrible

How can I make the best of any
not-so-seemingly-wonderful-at-
the-time situation? I’ve been told

that more isn’t always better, like
more loud pessimism, and I do have
those educational degrees in theatre.

I concentrate on how to make such of
life’s unexpected trifles into something
much more more horribly exuberant

than, at the time, might even have been
unimaginable by myself, much less by
each of the uneasy participants (witness-

es does not seem the appropriate desc-
riptor in these cases, however unwitting
is something I am most certain comes up

later in their thoughts, as in if only I’d
just walked away earlier, etc.). Anyway,
a lot has happened since then. Like the

moment a tercet seemed better, seemed
somehow more appropriate than any other
means to a sordid end. These moments
happen. Like, all the time. For example,

at Yosemite last weekend (which, now,
I’m wondering exactly who played whom,
with regard to exuberance, that is): “[here
we have a] marshmeadowmountainforest.”
Well, not so horrible, that. But how about,

while driving in circles through the valley:
“Jesus rims” “penguins on the harbor” [so]
“plug in your drunken squirrel immediately!”
I’m not sure what I’m saying about being a
drama queen, much less feeling ugly and
over-the-top, but this actually happened.

What’s so horrible about hilarity? At
least at the expense of Jesus, penguins
who happen to be at the harbor, drunk
squirrels and drama queens? The dark
under-story is often that which was
one of the best times I’ve ever had.

So what?

mmcdlxxiv

I talk dirty to stay alive.
         —Dodie Bellamy

Eye. Ewe. Hee. Chi.

   💥      💥      💥

I lie here, unable to

control my get-up.

On the teevee, the

comedian is telling

the 8-inch pianist

joke again, to the

comedienne host-

ing the Johnny

Carson show

(and therefore

it arrives warp-

edly at us, the

intended audience).

It’s the only joke my

father ever tells (un-

less you count ‘De-

feat of deduct...’) . . .

   💥      💥      💥

Mime. Emery. Myan. Heritage.

mmcdlxxiii

Soon, I Will Not Have Made It.

And this could make me very
sad, surely.  But what would
I have done differently, know-
ing soon what I don’t know
now?  It’s 4:32pm and I have
yet to write a quick, large
stone across my face.  This
morning I say (to myself)
for sure.  I will go the gym-
nasium in the evening (for
sure).  The day, however,
having wound down....
I’m beat.  I’m unwilling.
And, like Tom Hanks, I
hate the internet.  No-
thing whatsoever use-
ful in here [hear me
knock that hollow
knock knock].  Read-
something is reading
anything, I say, or
think, or think I say.
Information is time,
and all of the time,
so I have with me
presently a stapler;
it is fancy and red.
If I told you that I
just moved seven
loads of laundry
from washers into
dryers (ploddingly),
only to be locked out
of the laundry room
for the entire week-
end afterwards, would
you care enough to
believe me?  Or, per-
haps: “Look, I have
blisters on my toes
from wearing these
gorgeous new flippers!”?

mmcdlxxii

Pig Poem

Doesn’t
this poem
kind of
look like
a tall cat
staring
at you
from
the top
of your 

dresser?

mmcdlxxi

Keep Feeling Need

Today it’s chickens,
ducks and pigeons,
but tonight we’ll
feast on famine,
the familial.  I don’t
speak harsh on An
sel, but neither does
the thunder.  OOPS!
Did the thunder just
speak(?). . .(?). . . T
hen, after fourteen
chops of pork (not
hen) we were off
to see the mount
and.  And what
a true oracle.
But wait (slash/
slash)!  Halfway
there we’ve for
gotten our bills—
our auto-mobiles
(on planets such
as Mars).  Aw,
the nerd wars!
So it’s a blatant
turnaround that
won’t get us there
any longer.  In our
stead, we go no
more.  Is that all,
folks?  Sing, close
all of your eyes,
and cling to one
another like in
a happy dream.
But the big bad
box wouldn’t
even budge.  It
just stood there
all unopened.

mmcdlxx

Nothing Hates Me Worse Than Nobody Does It Better

I can’t stop                                                             Are you alive?
scribbling on                                                           If so, go ahead,
the itch. “                                                               I say (even meta-
the field aches

                                                                             phorically.  Write.
it is only an                                                            Write anyway.
echo of its own                                                       Writing poems
enormity” (L.
Shufran).  On                                                          is easy.  Write
                                                                              poems are easy
TV, we saw                                                              and feel the buzz
how we mis-

understood its                                                         saw flickering
own enormity.                                                         through your
                                                                             internal head.

mmcdlxix

The Cat The Canary Ate

I can hear her

right now,

twisting around

on top of my

laptop.  Please,

let it be known

how often I

do not know.

What I’m saying

might not be what

I’m doing; might

not be what laws

I’m simultaneously

breaking.  Smash

me in the mouth

if I get this far

(I ask this with

immediate sin-

cerity, and ever

so gently).

I heard it drop

from her mouth

to the floor be-

hind the door.

I heard you

drop.  I watched

as you dropped,

ever so slowly,

ever so silently,

cold, onto the

flickering

electric

keypad.

mmcdlxviii

Nobody Knows My Names

I’m really
very sorry
that I stole

your new
meme, but
somebody

was going
to do it 

anyway.

mmcdlxvii

I laughed until I cried

when she said that
there mayn’t be
any there over
there, but that
there certainly
was a whale 

of it over here.

mmcdlxvi

Twisted Love Letter Stolen from Lauren Shufran

                                                  —for Lauren Shufran

      |How I Learned to Stop Worrying>

      |and Love (that I’m) the Bomb

mmcdlxv

The Butch Forest

I’ll admit that I’m not
the best at giving dir-
ections. But I’m most
certainly over-compen-
sated for getting from
here to there.  This,

as the Mini Cooper
slides (emptily)
off the overhang.
What I’m trying to
say (and not in a
good way) is that

I know you and
you know me.
And if all we had
to do every day
was step aside
once or twice

just to get out
of each other’s
way, wouldn’t
you be one
pissed off
witch, too?

So get your
square-toed
boot out of
my Death
Star, you
big black

hole.  And
don’t you
dare go
and “Yes,
sir!” me,
’cuz Mamma

you know
I don’t have
a single clue
what I’m even
doing here.  So
don’t!  Don’t
you even!

mmcdlxiv

              That’s no figment in my pocket;
That’s a growing pain.
                          —Lauren Shufran

Please kindly remind me which one
of you is just the pretty face?  And

is it be kind, rewind?  Please kindly
remind.  (I wanted to end there, but)

Desire was tough to come by back in
those days.  She wanted it all.  And

honest.  Who wouldn’t?  She showed
her roses at the county fair late last

year.  Later that night, she shoved her
roses into a tiny mailbox while some-

body somewhere shoved his tiny
berated trip to the moon.  “Them’s

the shakes,” moans nobody, while
shifting gears or slamming on the

brakes.  And who was she kidding
after all. She still wants it all.

“And honestly,” we all wonder (just 

a tad too audibly), “who wouldn’t?!”

mmcdlxiii

Next + One

Waiter, that’s no fly
in my soup, it’s a
spy in the house

of love!  What I’m
trying so hardly
to tell you is that

there is a Spy.
In the House.
Of Love.  But

in the end
I had only
dreamt that

that was her
name.  So wake
up, you idiot!

“I’d be lying
if I woke up
next to you.”

“I mean I’d be
flying if I woke
up next to you,

Sugarcakes.”  I’d
only be lying if
I were to say

that I didn’t
care which
one of us is

the axe and
which one of
us is the tree.

“So let’s to the
forest at once,
pretty please!”

mmcdlxii

Why So Sinful (Simple)

I might hate my guts
(and this is no laughing
manor), but I almost
committed regicide

with a little dearth
the other day.  Yes,
Alexander, and, in
Texas (as in all my

exes live in...)!  No-
body does it better
than Candy by
Robbie Williams

(my rendition,
however).  His
rapid fleshless-
ness is excellent,

like Mike when
he counts his
bones.  This
time I really

don’t mean
boner, I

promise.

mmcdlxi

All Of This Is To Simply Say

It isn’t so simple.  Even on
paper.  “How can I recover
from this?”  it asks.  “How
can I recover from this?”
echoes the author.  Hello.
How might I possibly be-
gin to recover from this?

mmcdlx

Such A Tiny Journey
(Which I, By All Means, Extend)

Today is worship day.
Not warship day.
It is neither Saturday
nor Sunday.  Okay, it is
Saturday.  We are all
liars.  I can say this
knowing and not
knowing.

It is not just about
who’s quotable
enough to make
the point for me.
To help point to
something like
a red herring
(what of it?),

or who’s quotable
enough to divert
attention away from
the reel-to-reel,
here, now, then....
Narrative is

like that.  And
it’s almost every-
thing.  And especially
pretty much everything
else.  But in case you’re
working too hard to notice,
or hardly notice anything at all,

“I might turn out a good lyric but
I’m sure to make your dinner
real inedible.” That’s direct
from Lauren Shufran.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

mmcdlix

An Attempt at Remember (Interlude)

       I Was a Duck; My Schtick was Just to Sit Here
                                            —Lauren Shufran

Years later, I stayed over. The next morning
I was completely broken, bawling into my
tiny phone: “Love!” “Love!” “One plus one!”
Deliberately. Twice. Please don’t let the
floodgates know that he’s not you and that
I’m not me. I couldn’t believe how sweetly
he responded (how he must have felt!). Del-
iberately. I, so utterly occupied, had let go
of the one quality that kept me myself. What-
ever honest was went for a walk. Incredibly.
After this, bittersweet juice, as ever. We’re
faeries at the Ferry Building, a morning show
which actually happens years later, an after-
word. I’m up at 7:15am. I’m real. Real. And
here he is lying in bed. Right beside me. Lying
but not lying. Real but surreal, or awake, or
aghast, but no, with me, pressed against me
in his way, it has to be. Or. Somehow the
warmth permeates from the other side.
Remains in reel to reel. In conclusion,
the interlude. I get up sometimes. And
soon I find myself somewhere. Famili-
arity dissipates (family disappears);
even as I lie here (I am not lying!).
Same bed. Same bedroom, save some-
thing’s glowing. In the sky, something’s
glowing. It’s the sky. No. The clouds
are glowing this morning. I’m
in the shadows, having been awake
for a while. I’m waking up. The move-
ment of shadow over my face awakens
me from a long dream. Look how the
clouds are glowing today! I must go visit
with them. I’m going to go visit them now.

mmcdlviii

Self, Other, The Lack of Reason & The Paradox of Pleasure

Can this just be the interlude?
Can this just be who cares?
Can this please not be heart-
break? Can this be the story
of how my grandmother came
to be with my grandfather? For
fifty-something years, yes? The
ick of hosting an anniversary party
for them at my childhood home;
me, perhaps a high school senior.
Was it their 45th? In my heart,
and to this day, that was and is
a very big deal. I might slump
a bit as I type this, but I hold
them up as heroes in that
regard. The template. And
the wonder of the why and
especially the how of the how.
I did not see this through my
teenaged eyes, but from this
much older pair I see with
verity. What I,
myself, have sought,
and that which I’ll never
truly have. But haven’t I
lived? And thusly, such a life
that both of these heroes would,
I know, be in awe, so proud
(well, I am their grandson), if
not even a bit envious.... I left
home soon after for college.
Papaw passed on, and then
what? She lived on for
another decade plus. Even
saw another man (Papaw’s
closest friend, then a widower
due to her—Granny Louise’s—
closest friend’s passing). But
the pain, the declination,
was so furious that I could
never look again through those
loving eyes. To find equanimity
in the inevitable heartbreak
of a life spent living. I try to
continue to want this. I seem
unable to even suppress such
an aspiration. Even now, with
the stupid grin of such an age,
knowing its impossibilities. 

But, yes. Now more than ever.

mmcdlvii

Last Night

Had I been
but played

like one of
those mini-

ature sob-
bing violins?

Perhaps.
The sweet

dreams of 

naïveté....

mmcdlvi

Him, He Balks But Still Attempts To Sleep.

Him a little time.
Decided time to
go.  Him decided

but him divided,
unsleepable since
the great under-

cover escape.  Yep.
Him decides 4am
(by then).  Sits up,

blinks, and says
“No...”  (which,
to the one lying

next to Him,
opposes what
follows: “...

we can talk;
this is obviously
something that

is important to
you.”  To me:
the opposing

team still under-
cover, lying as
flat as a postage

stamp.  I’d been
so gentle.  Upset,
absolutely, but

without anger.
But this throws
me, is so new,

and welcome.
We only spoke
briefly, but that

one sentence
was all that mat- 

tered to me.