mmdcccxvii

Henry

     Hock the ham, Henry!  It’s gonna be a ragtag year!

My mom was a member of my hometown’s
Eastern Star group, which was the ladies’
version of the Mason’s.  Both groups used
the same lodge, and one was clearly meant
to be subservient to the other, but there wasn’t
much of that Masonic mystery when I was a kid.  
At least that’s not my memory of things.  But I
do recall that Mom had to participate in some sort 
of inaugural or hazing event in order to qualify or be-
come a member of my hometown’s Eastern Star group.
I’m not sure whether her materials were mandated or
whether perhaps she got to choose from a list,
perhaps of ladies of the Bible, but I remember that
her presentation was on Ruth.  She had to memorize
a monologue.  And I helped her do so.  Or probably 

more like annoyed her while she tried to do so.  

The presentation was done in the first person, 
by which I mean Mom played Ruth; it was 
a performance of some sort.  And 
that’s about all I remember of that.
It was a time, as I recall, when most
Henrys had made it back from the 
war(s), but rarely would any make
it to Sunday church service (save
Easter and Christmas, of course).
Maybe they were all making
movies, as several of the Henrys
had the pronounced features
of a leading (or pleading) man
that would appear like clockwork
on the silver screen for every
Sunday matinee.  It was small-
town Arkansas, back when
even every small town had
its own cinema; so, presum-
ably, there were many Henrys 
floating back and forth on 
many silver screens on
Sunday afternoons across
the nation.  While all of 
these large Henrys were
appearing larger than life
all over the nation, there
were a lot of Henrys daughters,
too.  And it is purported that
daughters of Henrys often 
had a predilection toward
deviant behavior.  Much
to the chagrin of the Henrys.
And of particular distaste
and alarm to the moms
of Henrys daughters.
Of the deviant daughters,
perhaps they were all (or
mostly all) over the fact
that most everyone in
their worlds were smitten
by Henrys.  And, ew, Henry
was dad to each and every
Henrys daughter.  There
was even a candy bar.
O Henry.  Which, by the
time of me and my aware-
ness of such nonsense, always
seemed just a bit out of fashion
or old fashioned to my senses.
Aged.  In much the same way
I thought of my grandfather’s
Old Spice bottles, of Sadie
Hawkins dances, of Vicks
Inhalant or vapor rub (of
which my great grand-
mother’s bedroom 
drawers were full)
and of Tarzaan (in
any incarnation),
I thought of O Henry
and, truth be told,
of most Henrys?
Yeah, probably.
I had an Uncle
Henry.  I had a
lot of uncles.  But
only one Uncle Henry.
Uncle Henry seemed
rarely to ever move (to
me, anyway).  Except to 
pack his pipe or pick it up
or smoke it a bit.  And de-
spite being the patriarch of
a fairly large and (again, to
me) very active family, many
members of whom would always
be present, it seems, whenever I
saw my Uncle Henry.  Wherever
I saw my Uncle Henry.  Generations
of them, always there, keeping Uncle
Henry company.  He did not seem either
happy about that nor irritated by that.  He
would just stand or sit, barely moving, 
looking super tall and thin (he was both)
whether sitting or standing (also, by the
way, almost always wearing overalls).
But the pipe.  It’s the first thing that 
comes to mind the moment I reminisce
about Uncle Henry.  Perhaps because it
was such a foreign item (it wasn’t until
I was older than the Henry era that Dad
started smoking one), and surely also
because of the very distinct and pleasant
sweetness that came from it.  Uncle Henry’s
pipe.  And the ritual of it all.  While he 
never seemed to move, the act of getting
the pipe ready to smoke and then smoking
it was pyrotechnically dazzling, in that
subtle Uncle Henry way.  But dazzling,
for sure.  Dazzled, I was.  By Uncle
Henry’s pipe.  This, I think in the
early hours of this morning, in a
place many miles away from those
times, and lots of other things in
between that time and place and
this one in which I am now writing
to you my memories of Uncle Henry
and the Henry Era.  I can almost
smell the sweet smoke from his
pipe’s tobacco.  And wonder,
presently, what occupied his
mind while he so silently and
contemplatively smoked it.

mmdcccxvi

Roy G. Buzz Says,

“I lost my youth
to an idiot.”

mmdcccxv

Roy G. Buzz

needs
to add
more
colors
to the
white
noises.

Yeah,
okay,
he pauses,

maybe
just re-
move
the ones
that are
the whitest.

Yes.  In-
deed.  Re-
move the
whitest
noises,
Mister
Buzz
surmises.

mmdcccxiv

Double Decker

Combat Wombat

         ILLEGIBLE 💙
    Note to self
    (And the rest of
      the kingdom):

No  More  Bags  On  HeadS


“No. I am        And also, coronate Lance Bass
    the                (do not blame the King. This
   King!”            came to me in a DREAM)


        Mega                                           Mania!!
                                   Lo



See!   Hi!   Hello!              Retry for ME.
                                          as King of this
                                          Kingdom.


            PROCLAMAIONS*:

        1. No court jesters necessary
            (the savings are incredible!)
 Also 2. No more rubber soles
 Etc. 3. Eliminate all spoons
        4. Alveoli
        5. Smartphone speaker holes will
            ALWAYS BE TIGHT

*which are kind of like proclamations without the t’s
~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Sally Field Is Now Head of
Air Transportation

And also…

All lefties will henceforth
Be regulated to the
            Stockyards.

Oh, I don’t think you’ll
    be laughing long.

Neighing Perhaps.
Neighing perHAPS.

  It’s a sad day in the kingdom
for anyone who
sees illegibility in the
King’s SACRED PAPYRI.

mmdcccxiii

Show To Mother
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem VII*)

I found two quarters and
two nickels on 8th Street
(sidewalk) yesterday. She’d
be so proud that I bothered
to stoop over to pick them
up. Madoc, on the other
hand, would probably have
found them before me. Or,
if by some odd chance he did
not find them first, he’d most
certainly need to know the date
in which each coin was minted…if
they were pennies, anyway. I wasn’t
hopping from interview to interview
when I found the coins. Not like I’m
doing today, when I learn I haven’t
quite enough money for a cheap lap-
top (you can get one for $100 these
days, I’ve just learned. One that
works. That’s cheaper than most
mobile phones, just for some con-
text or perspective.) Then I real-
ize that I can have $40 more if I
return the keyboard I just bought
here two weeks ago (I’m once
again at Best Buy), so it might
yet be possible for me to walk
home with my very own laptop,
the first one that I’ve owned
since my second night home-
less over twenty-one months
ago (a cold night when I slept
on the sidewalk a block down
from what was my apartment,
our apartment…. The problem
was I put the large piece of lug-
gage hastily packed full of what
I decided quickly were my most
important possessions, which
included several iPhones, my
laptop, a few of my favorite
clothes, a few bathroom sup-
plies, Coco the Loco, who was
a cat who for nine years had
never been my sole responsi-
bility, was never even my idea
to adopt in the first place be-
cause someone else beat me
to the punch shortly after
Sepia the Cat passed away.
All these were in my large
suitcase, along with some
completely random items from
the apartment – stuff I’d been
able to gather from the bulk
of all that was in there, one
third of which was not mine
but had been left there by
the deadbeat terror, another
third of which was mine or-
iginally and the last third be-
longed to me and the dead-
beat cumulatively – like Coco
the Loco – like the apartment
itself, the lease of which had
both our names, even though
I’d paid by far the larger share
of the rent and the rest of our
expenses for over five years
while the deadbeat eased his
way through college). And
of this disparity of items,
I’d been able to pack up and
get to the UHaul truck about
one third of the material 

that resided in the apartment 

with me, with us.  And that

included only a portion of
what I had accumulated in
my 50 years of living, which
was perhaps a third of what
had been in the apartment,
before being assaulted by
the apartment manager
simply because, thanks to
the most extreme panic at-
tack I can recall, I said I
need to take a quick trek
to the emergency room.
As the manager, a guy for
whom I’d sung praises for
being the best, empathized
with his work, spent hours
talking with him about AC/DC
concerts, and who had gotten
intimate with some of the
stragglers who invariably
stayed with me during their
hard times (I am told some
of the advances were unwant-
ed, but cannot attest to the
veracity of that), had me in a
neck-hold lifting me up to the
roof of the cabin of the U-Haul
truck, refusing to let me take
the short 5 block trip to St.
Francis. At least until I
screamed “POLICE, POLICE,
POLICE…” at the top of my
lungs and lo and behold the
police very quickly arrived
and I was able to escape the
horror of being there excav-
ating the history of my life

while being bullied and beat

en.  Once I was able to leave, 

I pulled in to the St. Francis
parking lot until I stopped
hyperventilating, then drove in-
to the Sunset to sleep for the
night in the UHaul truck (where
I discovered the next morning
that I had a flat tire). Backing up
a bit, I’d only gotten about a
third of the material that was
in the apartment in which I’d
lived for 13 years, about a third
of which was mine in the first
place, but all of which I paid
to be stored for a year, only
to have it all auctioned off (My
entire poetry library! My every
journal! All of my photo books,
including those few I got from
my grandmother’s collection,
and the quilt my other grand-
mother made me, along with
the many items that had no-
thing whatsoever to do with
me, except that I had lived
for a decade with their right-
ful owner, their rightful resp-
onsibility. They’d just been
left for me to take care of.
And after a year of making
payments while homeless and
jobless to keep the items in
storage, I lost every item after
missing a couple of months’
payments, after which all of the
items were apparently taken and
auctioned off in some horribly im-
personal manner to the highest
bidders. But back at Best Buy, and
upon contemplating all too much of
this craziness that had led to me
needing or wanting badly or just
being here seeing it would be poss-
ible for me to finally get a new lap-
top, in a new age where they could
be had for cheaper than most mobile
phones, I became full of questions so
big I would never have thought they’d
exist, these big questions; they had not
even crossed my mind. So I called Mom
to ask her what she thought of the sit-
uation I was in, or perhaps it was a di-
lemma. I ask her what I should do, what
she thought about all of it, but her response
was a familiar lamentation about how she
feels so terrible that she can’t help me
financially. “Mom,” I say, “you just sent
me $50 for Christmas,” or I wouldn’t even
be considering what had, given the last
couple of years, been an outrageously
delightful dilemma. She does her curt
little chuckle and I then recount how my
week between Christmas and New Year’s
has been thus far, and began to feel almost
giddy about how much more pleasant it is,
despite all that I’m still currently living
through that is, well, sub-par. After this
final exchange (which is much more me
than her), I hang up happy to have gotten
the opportunity to listen to a few of her
complaints – who’s passed away, who’s

in the hospital, etc. – and I chastise her 

for not sending me any sweet treats from 

the holidays this year (neither from Thanks-

giving nor Christmas, both of which al-
ways include the best, sweetest desserts
my family is capable of concocting – and
I’m serious, for the most part, having
hinted surely so much that she had to
know it was a serious request). But
this welcome and trite conversation
with Mom has opened me up to the
realization, more than ever, that even
though I’ve endured what has been five
years of horror, the past year finally saw
a tic upward rather than downward,
and remembering last year’s holidays
reveals how significant a difference the
present holiday season is, since it’s one
in which I remain mostly upbeat, positive,
motivated and even happy – a stark con

trast, it turns out, to my mother’s general
disposition, to her outlook on life, at least
as she so clearly presents it. It’s not the
only reason that I’m happy to have had
the conversation with her. It’s also that
there are so little conversations at all
these days; in my life. Whatever the
reason, it certainly lifted my spirits,
which weren’t horrible in the first place.
Perhaps part of it is a bit of a cocky relief
that my spirits, my generally positive outlook
(one which was almost impossible to find
during the four years previous, since the de-
parture of the deadbeat without even having
the balls to tell me anything about it to my
face, having to face the horror of the
truth on my own after he disappeared…and
well afterward), that my disposition was
formed substantially in rebellion to my
mother’s endless complaining and proud
pessimism. I suppose that the same could
be said of my aspiration to stay happy, al-
most to the point of hedonism; to generally
avoid any serious materialism; to refuse
to even feel or even attempt to under-
stand or relate to the concept of ven-
geance in any real way; and it primarily
explains the fact that I have remained a
staunch pacifist my entire life (as it has
existed thus far, in any case), never hav-
ing hit anyone – well, besides, as I have
often been told, my twin brothers, upon
coaxing, on more than one occasion,
my parents or one of my less aware
relatives into allowing me into the
boys’ playpen – some impulses are
apparently impossible to control.
These optimistic, pacifistic, happy,
hedonistic, non-vengeful, happy-go-
lucky impulses began, at first, it
seems to me, as nothing more than
cliché adolescent or teenage acts of
rebellion: those impulses which were
against authority, particularly those
of one’s parents or extended family.
I’m not perfect. I certainly compre-
hend that. But speaking with Mom
makes me happy. And today, it made
me very happy. Not in an “I’m so glad
I’m not like you” manner, either –
even though the story of my day
may come across in such a one-
dimensional manner. This feeling
reiterates for me that it’s enlightening
to be close to those who are unlike you.
I truly believe that. And, sure, it’s funny
that “unlike” might apply just as intensely
(if not more) to family members, to those
closest to you, as those from the opposite
end of the earth with whom you’ve not
even language in common. Family, like
perfect strangers from radically different
cultures, we have so much in common.
And boy, are we different. Way dif-
ferent. But, when you think about it,
as I am at the moment, we’re related
to each person on this planet. Imagine
the commonality, and what we might
learn from the differences. Mom
reminds me who I am every time
I have the joy of her presence,
be it face to face, flesh to flesh,
or, as it most often is these days,
ear to ear. Happy 75th birthday,
Mom, a couple of weeks early
(Dad would have been 75 today,
in fact). Here’s to as many more
conversations as you can withstand.
I love you for who you are and
for who I am and I always will.


*(the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
  attention)

mmdcccxii

John 3:16
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem V*)

On that day, the five dozen volunteers
walked over the edge of the precipice,
stopped for a moment, huddled in front
of it, then, as directed by the first in line,
moved forward, following him, one by one,
into and completely through the massive
oval of ancient rock that had been sacred
to the planet’s inhabitants ever since as
far back as their recorded history, and
no one knew how long before that.
But no one, at least in recorded history,
had ever dared to go where no Vulcan had
knowingly gone before; as far as Vulcanity
knew, no one had ever passed through the
Sacred Portal on the Great Precipice. The
line of individuals making their way to and
through the Great Portal were each volun-
teers, mostly made up of academic veterans
of research along with a few of the eccentrics
who lived further up the mountain upon which
the precipice and its “portal” stood. Each indi-
vidual who passed through the chute made of
sheer rock (which burned a bright shade of
bronze on clears days such as this one, which
was due to an admixture of heavy metal along
with the planet’s dusty mantle), once on the
other side, found that they had entered a void
filled with nearly blinding solid white—not quite
light—that was thicker than it could possibly be;
in fact, it was so dense that as each of the travel-
ers looked back to observe the side of the portal
from a perspective that, to their knowledge, no
Vulcan had ever seen, no trace of it could be seen.
There was nothing but the intense bright white.
Each Vulcan learns at a very young age that,
even with ardent and open-minded, steady
non-stop focus in one direction or at one thing
for any significant duration of time, any con-
clusions implied by logic about what was seen
might be about as far from the reality as imagin-
able. In other words, logic does not always win.
There is and will always be the inexplicable, the
unexplainable; illogic. Nevertheless, what with
imagination being one of any typical Vulcan’s
weakest link: what does one use to make any
progress with a subject encountered that with
standard logic is only misunderstood, inappropriate-
ly managed or dealt with, or worse, is an udefeat-
able enemy to civilization and harmony. Vulcans
become both palpably disturbed and very curious
when they encountered this sort of oddity. So, by the
time the seventy explorers had each passed through
the sacred, hollow rock and paused long enough to
glance back toward where they at least believed
they were moments earlier, the thick white non-
fog had in an instant become a seemingly imperm-
meable hue of pink. A Vulcan bathed entirely in a
sea of pink is a sight to behold (reference for example,
the master swimmers in the T'Paul Sea in the late spring).
It is the color for love, pink; and their color for grief.
And to immerse oneself in it is to encounter within
oneself the dichotomy, that primary conflict which the
proud race had all but successfully quelled for as far back
as the established historical record goes. When bathed
in this present pink light, each individual experience was
deep and unrelenting, it was pure emotion. And emotions
are illogical. To express them, to even allow them even
sparingly into consciousness was lowbrow, if you will. Yet
oddly, it was the primary ritual, catalyzed by walking into
the hallowed caverns where inside nothing existed except
a vivid pink intensity which could somehow, upon being
temporarily sealed (in an airtight manner) allowed move-
ment and breath within. Each Vulcan father would ex-
perience for a day, a night, and another day until dusk,
directly after the birth of his first-born. Several of today’s
volunteer explorers had never even experienced this
ritual, this rollercoaster through heartbreak and ecstasy
and everything in between. A few hours after being
lowered into one of these pink caverns, there was what
was termed in Vulcan something that, roughly translated,
was the reversal, a moment when all of the passion-inflict

ing rosy light began to subside and then slowly disappear
altogether. Nothing is left. Perception is momentarily
eradicated. Nothing is perceived – by either of the seven
Vulcan hypersenses. There is no negativity, no positivity.
There is no love, no vengeance; neither pain nor joy.
There is only the nothingness through which the trajectory
of the genesis of life soars to its culmination, to its inevitable
extinction. The drop, sheer as it was, wasn’t actually a
drop at all. What was perceived as precipice was rather
the mere top of what might best be described as a swarm
of poisonous green blood that co-existed with the mighty
pulse of existence, the unusual longevity of a race that had
always evolved, and swiftly, toward some ideal. The swarm,
however, had also pre-existed, and had moved beyond ideal.
And it would outlive the pulse. There was no sensation, to
be sure. There was “I know who you know” and there was
“I feel what you feel.” Representative of the entire race,
these explorers had grasped, in unison, that which was to be
normally quelled and yet experienced unto numbness only in
proximity with life’s most precious and poignant moments,

which, when combined with each like experience, was the 

summation of every Vulcan’s ritualistic journey from everything

into nothing. Their thoughts, as the beings each flew or fell
into the nothing of all nothings, were melded with those of
the green swarm. And all that remains of the event are im-
permeable notions. Love defies and denies logic. No love,
except that which extends indefinitely, exists. There is no
existence. There is an irrevocably pure, fathomable simpli-
city that is and will always be toppled by duplicity, or un-
being. These notions are held true by millions of hollow
words in thousands of fictive languages. The green
swarm always bleeds to death. The expanse of
altruism is a boiling vengeance. I see what you see.
I feel what you feel. And how would either of us ever
know any of this or even throw a wrench into the enor-
mous machine that creates and then contains and then
perpetuates these notions, when we each choose no-
thing but to keep swimming desperately just off the
shore of hope, in the dark confounding sea of denial?

*(the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
  attention)

mmdcccxi

Trivial Pursuit (1980’s Version) #3

PER*
Question:
What US association considered a 
seal of approval for low-cholesterol
foods in 1989.

Answer:
High Anxiety


ENT
Question:
In what mountain range does Dirty
Dancing take place?

Answer:
The Catskills


NEW
Question:
What two young brothers joined 
together as dark, unsung, gun-
slinging anti-heroes in a 1988
Australian western?

Answer:
Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze


TL
Question:
What long-running musical is 
based on T.S. Eliot’s deepest,
most intense and thought-pro-
voking volume of poetry.

Answer:
Cats


SL
Question:
What is created when you throw
Diplo into a bowl of Skrillex

Answer:
Jak Ü


WC
Question:
Anastasia, Sheena Easton, Shu-
hada Davitt (Sinead O’Connor’s 
new Islam name), The Time, the 
midnight singalong of Purple Rain
(Thank you, Peaches!), Nothing
Compares to?

Answer:
U


*Category key
  PER: Personalities
  ENT: Entertainment
  NEW: In The News
  TL: That’s Life
  SL: Sports & Leisure
  WC: Wild Card

mmdcccx

Trivial Pursuit (1980’s Version) #2

PER*
Question:
Whose campaign aides warned “A
vote for Anderson is a vote for
Reagan”?

Answer:
Jimmy Carter’s

ENT
Question:
What brand and style of condoms is
the favorite of Freddy Krueger, Ozzy
Osbourne, Nancy Kerrigan and Dian
Fossey?

Answer:
Red and black striped Trojans

NEW
Question:
What sent Carter-Wallace stock from
$61 to $150, coinciding with the be-
ginnings of the AIDS crisis?

Answer:
Trojan

TL
Question:
What country’s military squeezed
out $9,000 for marijuana-laced,
freeze dried urine?

Answer:
Martha Stewart

SL
Question:
How many inches long are the razors
Freddy Krueger uses on his victim, a)
Dustin Hoffman; b) Jack Nicholson; c)
puck chaser; d) Carl Bernstein or e) ...it
“ranks right up there with the Mountie
and the beaver,“ eh?

Answer:
Wayne Gretzy (It‘s a sports and
leisure question, so what were you
thinking?)

WC
Question:
Years before Nicole Kidman followed
suit, whose daughter married Danny
Keogh, the son of a Scientologist?

Answer:
You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,
and oh what a cruel one at that.
But you always love me tender when
I’m caught bouncing on Oprah’s living
room trampoline.

*Category key
  PER: Personalities
  ENT: Entertainment
  NEW: In The News
  TL: That’s Life
  SL: Sports & Leisure
  WC: Wild Card

mmdcccix

Trivial Pursuit (1980’s Version) #1

PER*
Question:
Who did Teddy Kennedy say he admired
for not getting involved involved in the
Reagan administration?

Answer:
Ronald Reagan


ENT
Question:
Taylor Swift?

Answer:
Taylor Dayne


NEW
Question:
What Disney character, whose video
was released in the early 80s, is first
cousin (at least) to the present day
ruler of the free world?

Answer:
Pinocchio


TL
Question:
What body part did Ronald Reagan
have skin cancer removed from in
1985, 1986 and 1987?

Answer:
His nose


SL
Question:
What kind of juice, with pits, was
thrown up ad nauseum in The
Witches of Eastwick?

Answer:
The Juice, Juice Newton and
Oran Juice Jones


WC
Question:
What Billy Joel song most closely
depicted the future of American
politics with the lyric “…but it just
may be a lunatic you’re looking for…”

Answer:
Pinocchio


*Category key
  PER: Personalities
  ENT: Entertainment
  NEW: In The News
  TL: That’s Life
  SL: Sports & Leisure
  WC: Wild Card

mmdcccviii

Swami Swami
Bing Bong
Gina Lollo-
brigida.

You never get a
second chance
to make a first
impression is
not always one
hundred per-
cent accurate.
For example,
it occurs on
plenty an
occasion that,
with but the firm
handshake you
share with a
new acquaint-
ance, you can
immediately
sense (or even
“know”), at
times visc-
erally, that
this hand
belongs to
someone
destined to
become a men-
tor, a primary
confidante, your
best friend and/or
long-term lover,
if not life-long
partner.  With
one firm shake
of the hand.
That’s all it can
take to discover
one with whom, for
each passing week
to follow, you’ll en-
joy hours of titillat-
ing, salon-like, deep
and pressing conver-
sations that inspire
not just the two of
you, but all of the
friends you accum-
ulate simply by vir-
tue of the celebrity-
like charisma you as
a duo command,
wherever you hap-
pen to be.  And
after the throngs
are enlightened by
these educational
romps, what will
follow are con-
versations until
deep into the
night, or more
often than not,
into the early
morning as the
light begins to
glimmer about
and the local
birdsong is in
full fare, with
just the two of
you; more end-
less, captive,
seismically mind-
blowing, career-
enhancing, and
even more pass-
ionate than the
earlier round-
table engage-
ments, filled with
laughter and gleeful
repartee, replete
with flirtation, eso-
teric mind-games,
and just enough
slight disagree-
ment that either
of you can triumph-
antly sway the
other at least
slightly in the
other’s direction.
These evenings
will see the con-
sumption of scads
of middle- to upper-
range-priced bottles
of wine (because your
new best friend has
an expansive cellar,
and knows just the
places – or can ascer-
tain in a jiffy – to find
the best spirits at
bargain prices, being
friends with vintners,
bulk traders and
sommeliers world-
wide).  These nights
are libido-ridden
and rife with com-
pelling import,
which must be dis-
cussed at length –
and soon, of course,
and plans are quickly
made to do just that,
right before you stag-
ger out the door and
into the the filtered
rays of a sunrise, rays
that dance toward you
from heaven (or there-
abouts) and are inter-
spersed with patchy
introspective-conduc-
ing fog.  Then, after
happily walking for
a while, and emerg-
ing from a final
patch of fog just
rotund enough to
encapsulate you
and your momen-
tary fantasy, you
are brought back
to the here and
now, back to this
first encounter
with whom you
are by now more
certain than the
intimate connec-
tion of the flesh of
a couple of palms
during a firm hand-
shake.  That moment
when you are clear
of the imminence
of what will be a
lifetime connection,
which will expand
beyond that first
electric grip into 

each day henceforth.
It all begins
with this 15 or
20 minute mo-
ment during
which your
spine tingles
with anticipation
of what will come.
And then you trade
cards, your new
best friend pro-
mises a call with-
in a week or two
to follow up with
something or other
so that you can
be gifted a back-
channel to a man
whom you asolute-
ly must contact
immediately, for
whatever upward-
moving reason.
And as your new
soulmate fades
into the crowd
and the conver-
sation still re-
sounds in your
head, you’re
nothing short
of giddy with
prospect, pal-
pably sonic
with relevance,
when mere
minutes pre-
vious, your
head was
clogged, stag-
nating with the
awareness of
the insignifi-
cance of your
life, which has
now become of
grave importance
to you as you
pocket your
new power-
mate’s card
and bid an
overzealous
Farewell un-
til next week
(or so), so sat-
isfied with the
assurance that
you’ve found
a new mentor
for business
and social
ventures and
who knows
what intriguing
partnerships and
adventure to come.

However, of course,
your new acquaint-
ance, the unbeknownst
burgeoning co-conspir-
ator you’ve imagined,
after mere moments
of gliding through
many admirers,
stopping to speak
at any and all
occasion along
the way, may
quite possibly,
by the end of
the evening, if
not sooner, have,
like many others
before, completely
forgotten you and
your life-altering
moment; may
even, perhaps
never again
register a
glimpse of
a memory
of you or
your first
and only
encounter.
Not once.
Not ever.

Swami Swami
Bing Bong
Gina Lollo-
brigida.

mmdcccvii

Westward, Ho!

This length
of time
(this length!!)
is nothing
that I ever
once en-
visioned,
was une-
quivocally
never part
of any plan
(unless con-
spired). None-
theless, this
solitude is
what I
choose,
having
seeming-
ly such lit-
tle choice,
as it were.
As it were?
It isn’t. I
must move
on. I do.

mmdcccvi

The Scapegoat

You see me
cocky, scattered
and high when
perfectly sober.
Drawing con-
clusions from
disheveled over-
compensation
makes sobriety
suck. Quite
simply, it does
not clear the air
between us,
never mind our
heads. When
supposition
equals real-
ity it's your
withdrawal,
not mine,
that loses
me in the
end.

mmdcccv

Aleecia’s Words

Wriggly Freckles
at Widow’s Peak
Pointe catches a
spider. Oh yes she
duzz! Aleecia reck-
ons that’s just the
trouble with kibble
these days. Clumps
of dust is not a meal,
as far as she can see.
And since Freckles is
not a vegan or any-
thing, and her digest-
ion is good (In fact,
it's superior! says
her vet).... it’s just
that her knees are
a bit wobbly. And
she’s got a bad heart.
But what’s a messed
up ticker, anyway.
We’ve all got some-
thing. And Aleecia
knows a lot about
bad hearts.
Certainly
enough not
to worry about
such things when
there’s the can-
cer. And the
scourge of
cars that
whiz by The
Lemon Shoppe
day in and day
out. Freckles’
hunger, briefly
expunged by the
spider, hoofs it –
all the way to the
incoming Pacific,
gets wet right up
to her weak knees
and then dances a
tarantella on the beach,
which is beiging from a
swiftly-sinking sun that’s
soon to dusk, so that the
ocher ball is pretty much
aligned with the end-
less, salt-licked sand
making endless love
with the Pacific. Over-
stuffed boxes of lemons
(with an occasional lime)
are stacked clean up to
the tin-wavered roof
of the nothing fancy
shack that is perched
between the beach below
and Highway One just
above, home of
Freckles. And of
Aleecia,
who happily
claps the tempo
of the tarantella
as she watches her
companion. Freckles
the Fancy-Dancer!
she yells down to
the dancing dog,
words that mute
quickly – what
with the whizzing
cars at her back
and the incoming
waves that lap at the
horizon. You’re just
a Fancy-Dancer – Oh
yes you are! Each
of Aleecia’s words
go damp, and then
settle somewhere
upon the even-
ing’s spindrift
that blankets
the waves
as far as
her eyes
can see.

mmdccciv

I’m Not Alone
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem IV*)

Worldwide, fervent belief in conspiracy
theories is at an all-time high, both
in the magnitude of the population who
adhere firmly to the veracity of one
or more, but most radically in the number
of such theories assumed 100% true on an
individual level. I just made this fact up,
to be honest, but it’s only a rhetorical
question. And because duh. Back at camp,
we’d always know when it was time for the
party to start when the rebel forces were
approaching. Their transportation apparati
were always in stark contrast with those of
ours. There’s a rhyme and a reason for
everything, as Shakespeare incessantly did
not attempt to convince his contemporaries.
The announcement was barked over the loud-
speakers: “The rebel forces are approaching.
The rebel forces are approaching.” We’d all
quickly slipped into battle gear, donned our epic
battle-appropriate make-up and then we would
dance for days on end. I really miss those days.
Sure, there was slavery. But dancing through
days and nights that moved as slowly and as
deliciously as syrup slowly seeping down through
the middle of a whopping stack of flapjacks
(not to mention the otherworldly plunge
into each disc of butter, one on top, one on
bottom, and ones smashed between the center
of each cake, along with the thousand flak
jackets seen pulsating through a hallucinatory
mist in contortions that could only have been
locked within mirrors one normally only en-
counters at the county fair (remember those?),
yet were actually dozens of not variations of
the ecstatic raver slipping slowly through the
party’s glorious goo but several dozen meat-
heads from my own platoon; the rest of
the seemingly endless ultra-hedonistic wide-
eyed party crew. They were the shit, those
parties. Certainly enough to give anyone
familiar pause when hearing the variations
on hyperbolic adjectives used years hence
to describe a night (or two) at Studio 54,
(for example). Those men swathed in camo
and dripping with bayonets put today’s
attempts at weekends full of fireworks
and sweat and the so-called slaves of the
circuit to shame. Circuit parties? Lugubrious
imitations of impossible to render minutia of
a memory of a sliver of time spent slathered
and body-slamming at those war-gatherings
of yore. Hmmph! Today’s bodies puffily
jiggling with shame. No pounding here. And
those bayonets, which by the bottom of the
cake had found a thousand new meanings,
each one a vast epistimological distance
from any war zone or deep governmental
basement. Those good old days.

They say it’s interplanetary progeny, a
proliferation of these disproportioned kids,
something the spiritual journals call the
“homogenization” of human-centric and
other human-like species. Human-like. Ha.
Many of these carry not an ounce of blood,
no watery substance. And hearts? We’re
becoming a vein-free galaxy, they say.
And this is a good thing?! A culture devoid
not only of the heroism of hedonism and
the inevitable and completely impossible
to describe intertwining of the knives and
the long barrels of the era of bayonets;
devoid of culture itself. Talking tubes
incapable of speaking but one language
or of uttering a phrase that is neither
selfish nor utterly empty.

But this I can say without conviction. You
can mark my words, as much as one or
two even matter in a moment of time
such as this: this dearth, these point-
less talking tubes, the homogenization,
despite its funny-looking kids…I tell you
it is but a cover-up for the real story; a
diversion from the plan already being
implemented. The truth is out there,
all right. For whatever it’s worth. And
we’ll all come to know this plan. Intim-
ately. And unless there’s anyone in here
who gets everything I’m trying to tell you,
we’ll all, each and every one of us, know
all too late what atrocities this heinous
plan entails. We’ll know way too late,
I tell you.  Meaning we will never know.

But, men, you should all stand with me
on one thing for certain. Those were
some damn fine parties back then. So
fine that our wars always brought the
enemies together. You remember, John.
Surely I’m not alone here. You and I, we’d
be royalty. Royalty, I tell you. It was war.
It was life. We were the shit. You remember
now? I know you do. Man, do I ever miss the
war. Those visions, a camaraderie only the
jungle could ever offer and by far the purest
love any living member of the tribe has ever
experienced dancing. Dancing. The buzz of
war, I tell you. [He clutches his heart like no
tomorrow]. I seriously miss the camo, the slow-
motion camo, the war and its men. I miss them
all something fierce. Like rear view windows,
like all of those ancient pyramids’ objets d’art,
like soft-boiled eggs, like birds, and, oh, eggs,
but more than all of those things combined,

what I miss the most is those good old days.

*the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
  attention.

mmdccciii

Oct. 30

If I say it,
it is true.

If I say it,
it is true.

My writing
lacks logic.

Like me, you
say, going

from tid-
bit to tid-

bit as if
everything

is in a pro-
per place –

has an app-
ropriate loc-

ale, one thing
leading, con-

sequently, to
the other. Like

narrative anyone
can follow, and

occasionally nod in
vigorous agreement,

as if to relay “This
makes sense, I con-

cur!” Like chron-
ology, like an

engaging bed-
time story told

with the primary
purpose of putting

one to sleep. Sound-
ly, with intermittent

dreams (anti-logic,
experimental poet-

ics, non sequiturs,
etc.). I arose at

seven a.m. I lunched
at eleven. I interviewed

at two. I slept around
one in the morning. 

I slept around one

loud morning.  I

am uncloudy and I

rate the logic of

my world. Breathe
in. Breathe out.

This day is very
alive. In fact,

it rocks! Today
rocks! And I rule!

Oh, happy day
of the living!

mmdcccii

Art Not Play?

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again
      whom we love.
                                                   —Frank O’Hara

Today,
the city
clearer,
I walk it.

Up and
down its
many hills.

The Far
East is
as far
away as
El Segundo.

Which is
either
very far
away or
very close

depending
on your
perspective.

mmdccci

I’m Not Sure About This One...
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem* III)

In my world a magician
is a thief and a poet is
a con artist.  Right?  OK,
you’d be correct in point
out that I’m adrift, drop-
ping big blankets over
people.  Some people.
Such as those who can
be instantly figured out,
of course.  Because, sure,
much art (many, actually)
is a con above all else.  If
nothing but.  A pro, how-
ever, gets with the pro-
gram, is on the ball (but
why is it always only
one ball?).  A pro is a go-
getter, a meat-eater and,
most importantly, a bread-
winner (hint: BECAUSE HE
HAS A JOB!  Or two.).
Make no bones about it,
I’ve tried both sides.
Pro.  And con. I  guess
you might say that
makes me versatile.

*the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
  attention

mmdccc

A Page of Thoughts

My handwriting was never the best, 

but it gets worse and worse.  Here,

a word looks like “hex” — which I love — 

but not being the cliché who can 

all-too-often barely read his own 

handwriting, today editing hand

written drafts.  I’m allowed to
sit at a computer.  And so.  And I 

never used to edit for any considerable
length of time, but my situation
over the past few years seems
to have greatly increased my
editing time and process
[process?], while at the
same time, thanks especially,
I am certain, to my transience,
connected also to my lack of
ownership, of a laptop or a
desktop [one without time
limits which has me hop-
ping from library to library,
etc.] or even a decent cell-
phone…. AND there’s the problem 

of nowhere mine to go, no
where mine to sit.  Blame,
blame, blame.  I do a lot of
blaming.  I know.  A lot.  People
tell me this all the time.  Perfect
strangers.  Today I say that maybe 

we’re too complex for blame.  Or of 

remembering our own names. I know. It's me. 

I do, i swear, spend much private time “owning up” —

but I take a stand in making certain to
publicly act on attempts to know when
NOT to blame myself, and when to
firmly stick to understanding when
(don’t laugh!) I am the victim.  Know

when to kowtow.  Know when to bow out.
Or when to just bone up.  Ow! Just shut up
about it all, you’re hurting my head

on a regular but limited basis!  “Hey, let’s 

have coffee and talk about

this sometime.”  With all of the
seriousness in the world, that
request. Anyway...
The hex, or these things, while
often wonderful, fun, innocuous,
interesting, odd, not always too
overly dramatic or logical, graph-
ic, sinister without the cynicism,
or, no, I mean the other way
around. I think. Of me. Occasion-
ally (I mean who else? I’m a good

person. I mean I am good, right?
So genuine, so full of crap, without
suffering from the worry
of being too Gemini [a gleefully
sincere lie!]?).  I work hard striving
for good, trying to comprehend
what that might mean and why it
might or might not be meaningful.
Many things help us forget and grow 

distant, relax into that conundrum
like an oxymoron, fall apart.  I
fall to pieces, trying to fix things.
This shows my simplicity, my com-
plexity, the spectacular spectrum
of my complexion, the horrible sense
of if all.  The horrible sensations.  The luxury
of baggage.  I’m falling into my fading “I’m
right and you aren’t” mentality (empathy being

the line that separates adulthood and child-
hood — sadly, most seem never to make it
over that hurdle).  These have to be driven 

attempts, done on regular bases, at “being as” else. 

Someone who, preferably, holds values quite independent 

from those of your own (Do you have even one?  Allow me 

to check.), if not at complete odds with them.  You go first. 

What’s your cuppa regarding my culpability.  Sometimes 
I am.  Just like you are.  Just like Robert Culp is.

mmdccxcix

Sakrificial Gravy

Milk like
Nick’s (ramp-
ant) rice farm
shudder with the
farts of the wild
rams (and their res-
pective ramettes) and
it’s so totally amped, hasn’t
seen rain in the timespan it
took me to attend three new
Thai eateries’ grand openings
(each, consequently, to rave reviews)
here at the opposite end of the Pac-
ific…. So, it’s the videocam
again, it’ll always do in an in-
stant (neither of us is yawning);
an instant of love over the
mildew of lost connections,
I think aloud with the (by now)
tired and sleepy crickets. A
quick list of the cons of an
unwitting conversationalist
(unwilling, though?) means
much more than a possible
risk that never got a chance
to even return home a pro (a
live one, anyway). Thus, this
prospectus (in perpetuity): he
begs with his legs until he
probably believes he can prove
non-proximal conversion —
but from this end of deprav-
ity he (as usual) spews his top
(which clearly should be crim-
son red!). Stop. No. There is
nary a tract of (his) (thought?)
process (flitting as swiftly and
as flirtatiously as his eyelashes
and as endearingly as his aping
of my own curse phrases —
which I conduct in honor of my
dad, I always say after a spate —
only he twists the phrases so in-
side out until all sorts of hil-
arity simmers deep in my gut and
erupts as an explosion of
gratitude and forgiveness).
Then his quick change of
subject, which is intentional,
not in the least non sequitur,
and so dizzying that I forget
whether we’re dining at
The Ritz this evening or (in his
case, tomorrow morning) at
The International House of
Baloney. But I can clearly
ascertain that the guy sitting
at the table next to ours (or,
rather, mine?) has a lifeless
hand cupping his crotch while
he concentrates deeply into
his phone. This scene is so nor-
mal as to generate satisfac-
tion. I might as well be speak-
ing directly into my table-
neighbor’s crotch. It is, I de-
cide, a good thing I can write
in the stead of whatever I’m
paying for at whenever mo-
ment I decide is payday. I
remember an entire
city filled with internet. But
I seem memory-free when it
comes to the serial dramas and
serial killers that crumbled and
corrupted it. The city is who I
love. Do you? Dehydration may
yet turn out to be true love after all.
I found you in this city, lover
of mine, conducting a wok. It
is a story of two poles on a
big ball of seasons; delicious
with stir-fry (the air is perm-
eated ginseng). The grieving
process is enormous, hyper-
bolic, ignorant (most hope-
fully) and always induces hy-
perventilation. We shall meet
next week when the icecaps
finish melting and will of course
have no choice but to collapse
into a bear hug that slowly
works its grip all the way down
to our twenty throbbing, drowning,
electric-ecstatic toes. You pick
your reality. And I will pick mine.