mmmcmxiii

A Day in the Life
of Dot the Dewdrop

Dot the Dewdrop
was always slickening up
the Yellow Brick Road.

She’d take her sweet time
of a morning to evaporate
for the day, checking out

the cabbage patch for any
extra drops stuck within
the skins of each cabbage

for which she could bump
and combine. She’d stop,
to smell, or whet her

appetite, really, at the
wonderful wisteria and
the glistening marigolds,

rolling herself up and
down blooms just to get
a sniff-taste of their

various deliciousnesses.
She’d wave at everyone
as she passed Mountain

Town and Plymouth Rock,
only she really didn’t have
the nuts and bolts to wave

or even lift a finger, so her
attempts came out more
like icicled baby’s breath

or glub-glubs. The town
folk new it was Dot,
recognizing the sound

from the previous
morning, and the
morning before that,

so each said hello in
their own way. Dot’s
goal was always to make

it all the way to the Ivory 

Tower that stood tall and 

gleaming just beyond the

summer squash garden.
But, alas, she could
never even make

it to the squash,
for just this side
of the yellow-orange

paradise she’d inch
her way toward each
and every morning,

just like this one (and 

this is the tragedy that
befalls all poor

dewdrops, their
memory being
worse than that

of a goldfish), she’d
roll right into the
Suckin’ Muck Swamp,

having forgotten of
its very existence.
And that swamp

would suck Dot
the Dewdrop
right down into

a void, a tasteless 

state of non-existence
for dewdrops,

basically. But,
just after midnight
each night, just as

the bells could be
heard tolling
from the Ivory

Tower in the
distance, that
swamp would

burp Dot the
Dewdrop right
out, all the way

back up to the
fork in the Yellow
Brick Road where

she’d regain con
sciousness, and once 

again she’d giddily be

gin her daily roll
down the gold
and gleaming

road. And, like
the morning
before, Dot was

the happiest little
drop of moisture
in all of Kansas.

mmmcmxii

That Timeless Game

Suzanne sat at her back bay window

contemplating the herb garden that

shone like resplendent sea glass in the

in the distance, well past the pasture

filled with unbundled, newly cropped

sagebrush-colored hay that was spread

like a succulent summer camp between

them. Beyond that was the mystical sun

breaking from the earth like hot lava.

The garden was hers. She’d cultivated

so carefully each individual set of plants,

gathered them from the corners of the

world herself, bringing each seed, each

sapling carefully back like Jack’s precious

beans to the only home she’d known for

over eighty years. The garden had been

her defiant act, her one undeniable scheme

to somehow shake in some small way her

destiny, it having been, up until the middle

of her adolescence, her grandmother’s

swath of hydrangeas. In those days,

her every thought was of exotic locales

that were anywhere but here, she

remembered dreaming of the once-

famed but now forgotten Golden Gate,

to which she would eventually travel,

a revolutionary trip, from which she’d

arrive home afterwards with such bounty

that her garden grew four-fold in a singular

season, and all simply thanks to the contents

of the packed and soil-stained apron within

which she had returned. She bent her head 

down, as if in prayer, and got lost. The fig tree

leaves strewn upon the table beneath her chin 

were the maps from her many journeys. She

thought of how she’d had the hydrangeas

demolished, her grandmother lying here,

in what was her bedroom, dying.  And how

she had known that scene would be, was,

one of the last things her nemesis

would see. “The grass is always

greener,” she’d always thought,

but not without an omnipresent

air of revenge that swirled into

and out of her nostrils, which

were flaring out and folding to

nearly closed at a much quicker

pace than usual this evening.

She reached for a leaf on the

table, barely thinking of the

traditional meal she had

planned and had been

preparing for dinner

that evening, a meal

that was never realized.

“The grass is always greener,”

she thought, slumped, her

dead eyes filling just enough

that there were two distinct

drips that fell onto the leaf just

below her pearl-laden neck.

mmmcmxi

Parklet

What to do with backlog of

no-good blather. I used to

sleep with you and yet

attractive artists everywhere

are making future plans and

wanting to leave things more

open. I’ve done open. I like

being open to new ideas. I am

a bit more suspect with open

with regard to permanent

relationships, just between

you and me. And it’s not that

any or all of my relations of such 

have been impermanent, but if

I begin to, as I like to say, in

vest my time with someone,

the notion is I’m working on

a possible permanence. So.

Marauding Blood Pressure,

tentative title. Only now add

diabetes, two bouts with Covid

(we can still discuss this, right?),

testicular cancer (this one should

come with a caveat, no?), Work-

related Massage at the Ethiopian

Restaurant, tentative title. Oh,

and repeat after me: Tuesday,

get a better job! Go ahead.

Ready? Tuesday, get a job!

Get a job! Just get a job!

P.S. Keep November Free.

Tentative title.

mmmcmx

Vignette

The cat’s energy
lying in bed. It
had the purriest
meow I used to
remember. It’s
11am, not 9:30
and I am think
ing of an itch be
tween 1 and 10.
This day could
be hurling thru
a cacophony of
street signs and
umbrellas. What
used to be taxis,
taxicabs. Instead
the redundancy of
a dog howling at a
cat who can’t hear
the noises she is
making, but the
human can feel
the vibrations
of her purr, of
his animal / not
his animal. And
the human closes
his eyes to the
noise of the
street. Opens
his senses to
the vibes of
being alive.
Of the cat
long gone.
Of the bone
flown at the
dog. Of the
day that will
happen with
out him.

mmmcmix

Reticence

Write about how
Mumbles Mumblebee
always mumbled.

Go for a long pain-
addled walk. Writhe
in bed for hours.

Pick one. Accentuate
the positive. Don’t
do the opposite,

that’d be dumb.
Also, don’t sit around
thinking of the many

ways in which you
are a loser. If you go
that route, before you

get too carried away,
call me, contact me,
I’m easy to get in

touch with, and I’ve
a long list of losers
you can alternatively

contemplate. If you’re
thinking about doing
something fun, do it.

If it seems impossible
to do at that very
moment, make a

plan. Set goals.
Reach them. Make
a lot of plans to do

fun things. Remember
that television show
you wanted to watch?

That movie you were
dying to see? These
days there’s no excuse,

unless you happen to
be as poor as I am.
If you’re as poor as I

am, make a list of
things you can do
when you’re not

poor anymore. But
don’t stop there!
Then you go out and

you get yourself some
money. This may sound
easy. It’s not. But I

believe you can do it.
I believe in you.
Don’t you? Believe!

mmmcmviii

Humdrum Bob

Click
double-
click goes
the fan as it
turns. Every
fifteen seconds
it does this. Then
there’s the whir of
the blade itself. A
hmmmmmmmmmnn
sort of sound that Bob
calls his white noise.
His phone dings once
in a while. A ting that
hangs in the air in a bit
of a metallic way, usually
followed about a minute
later with another ting – 

only that’s a notification 

for the same thing as 

the first ting. Bob does

not have any friends, 

but he’s set up an alert 

or two. When there’s
local news of a bank
robbery, for example.
Or when there’s any
news on the members
of Abba. Or Fleetwood
Mac. Turns out lately
that those tings are
mostly about death.
Death is not Bob’s
favorite subject.
Click double-click
goes the fan as it
turns. Every
fifteen seconds.

mmmcmvii

Unwung

Stuffed
in the bed
like a baby’s
doll. Can’t
stand up,
can barely
crawl. I’m
’ridden all
day, no
way to get
up, get out,
or play, a
roiling pain
in my middle
comes and
goes like the
waves of a
dark sea on
a stormy day.
Face it like
a fact, I am
grounded like
a bird that a
hound unwung.

mmmcmvi

Temples on Fire

We both have headaches.
What a bore! And all of my
ailments feel the need for
their moment in the spotlight.

Hello, says the knee, which I
sprained about month and a
half ago. Oh, shut up, knee!
It’s well on its way to recovery.

Though now there’s the occasional
pop and an all-to-often angle in the
gait or pose or moment in the middle
of a stretch, perhaps in the middle

of the night, when there’s an out
ragious bolt of pain that runs up
and down from the knee that once
it hits my brain has me put out a

really helpless sort of yelp that
actually wants to be the loudest
scream. But then it’s gone, and
I’m back to pretending I’m walking

or sleeping or posing like normal.
And there’s a new incision that’s
just to the left of a nearly 35-year
old slightly smaller but otherwise

mirrored image scar – they both
appear just below my hip. Or,
without knowing where on earth
the hip might be, exactly, let’s

just say they each appear, well,
one slightly below and one slightly
above where I (initially) wrap my
belt around my gut of a morning.

Depending on the season or the
month or just depending, the
edge of those jeans or slacks
might ride up or they might

ride down my body before
finally settling, if settling
does occur. And while
the appendectomy scar

(and it had burst by the
time of the surgery) hasn’t
even the ghost of any pain
left, it remained for me for

years just a conversation
piece. I like scars. The
other incision, on the other
hand, is less than two weeks

old. And the surrounding area
of that one is experiencing a
bit of a renaissance in pain quite
unlike that experienced after my

appendectomy. Am I still not
talking further about it? Perhaps
my reticence gives it all away.
What I can say is that today

I was informed that I am, as
far as can be detected by an
MRI done a week after surgery,
cancer-free. And that’s pretty

straightforward, between you
and me. And just as straight
forwardly something to cele
brate. Which I’m trying to do,

really, I’m trying quite intently,
but truth be told, there’s too
much else to worry about
these days, and not a soul

with which to celebrate, at
least at the moment, and
I’m not counting on there
being any. Is that why

such good news feels oddly
melancholy? Or is it that I’m
just in denial. Well, if you could
only ask me again tomorrow.

mmmcmv

A Quick Drive Through
The Land of Dead Ends

I’m feeling as beaten up
as a trashcan tonight and
I’ve only been up for a few
short hours. I’ve half a mind

to mercilessly delve into the
details of how I got from
there to here but as far back
as my memory will presently

take me I was still very much
a trashcan. Should I feel bad
or embarrassed because this
chitter-chatter is superficial?

That doesn’t mean that all
I’ve said is not but a hundred
percent accurate, plus—and here,
I’ll add the slightest bit of intrigue

by saying just between me and you—
I’m experiencing something now
that has come and gone a bit of
late: the inclination of “I’d rather

not talk about it.” “About what?”
you surely don’t even consider
asking, and it’s not so much out
of politesse, but it’s a characteristic

all too overly common among us
normal human folk; something I
used to lament in days that were,
and not so long ago, which is that

we just do not care. Now, I ask
something that is rhetorical, just
for the sake of bringing this whole
thing to a neatly wrapped dead end.

It’s a chicken and egg question, so
to speak. And that is, which came
first, us not caring, or us not having
the damnedest inclination whatsoever

of talking just a little bit about it,
whatever our individual “it” may be?

mmmcmiv

I Toucan Right Bat Pullems

And what’s wrong with that,
really? Nothing, of course.
It’s still a free country. Or
is it? Of course, it’s not. So
why not exercise such mad
ness as much as one can,
right? Today I began to
catch up, after surgery
(do imagine this for a
moment as a diary entry
by me, the poet, the real
poet), which was a week
and a day ago, followed

by an MRI or is it a CT
scan, I never know if
these are one in the
same or two separate
entities altogether.
Will I now look up the
difference? Okay, in
somewhat anxious
nostalgia of times past,
I’ll go ahead and do just
that. What is usually said
at moments like this. How
about, “Hang on?”

CT Scan: 1. an X-ray image
using a form of tomography
in which a computer controls
the motion of the X-ray source
and detectors, processes the
data, and produces the image

MRI: short for magnetic resonance
imaging, a medical examination
performed using magnetic resonance
imaging. [okay, duh, so upon further
examination, what is that?:] a medical
imaging technique used in radiology to
form pictures of the anatomy and the
physiological processes of the body.
MRI scanners use strong magnetic
fields , magnetic field gradients, and
radio waves to generate images of
organs of the body. Also, MRI could
mean the images obtained from such.

Does this help me? Now? Only in
that it bides time until my next 
scheduled appointment with my
surgeon. Is the cancer all gone?
Right now I have no idea. Does
this cause an inordinate amount
of anxiety within me. Not yet.
But a goodly amount, for sure.
For I had my MRI yesterday. By
today those results are sitting
somewhere. How do I get them?
Do I have to wait a week in order
to hear what the findings are?

I began this piece with a joke, the
way I ended the last piece, in which
I toucan right bat pullems. This is
surely true, even probably in the
case of what you see before you
now. But this is more of a grappling.
More of an antidote to, not writing
poorly, this is a meandering thing
I type for many reasons, mostly
just to get something finished so
that I can post it as a poem as I
am two behind for the month. In
this way is discipline a good thing?
I say yes. Meanwhile, do I still
have cancer? This I do not know.
But should be able to discern between

now, the day after I had my post-surgery
MRI, and the moment in which I accidentally
pour a full cup of water all over myself. This i 

just did. Yes.  So maybe, rather, between now

and when?  Soon?  Yes, but time like this is not

anything that finds soon so easily or delicately.

mmmcmiii

Stardust in a Tight-ass Box

What’s wrong with
checking online?

Where I am led to
believe that tiny

creatures from
some nebula—

lizard people
of ancient times—

have been monitoring
us for, well, obviously

quite some time now.
Do these lizard people

still exist? Have they
evolved? Do they

float through the
stratosphere with

Casper the Friendly
Ghost? Casper and

Friends, that is? Or
am I hallucinating?

As proof, here, have
some air. I picked

it up late last night.
It smells like musty

cereal, but believe
you me, it packs

quite a punch.
After which Judy

starts her very own
fight club. That was

so low it gave me
sticker shock.

Come now, calm
down, what are

you going to do,
anyway, sue me?

Yes, I read about
the mandate. The

moratorium on
higgledy-piggledy.

But look yonder
at those hills. And

at that mountain of
pickled pig’s feet.

No “I told you so,”
eh? Why, look who’s

flushing with embarr
assment now. P.S.

I toucan right
bat pullems.

mmmcmii

That was wild.

I take each book out

of the bag, slowly make

a stack of them on the

coffee table, become a

person who has the men

tal capacity for enjoyment,

a person who wants to hide

his true self. The urgent

violence that is honesty

calls me out of a long

nap (was I dreaming?),

and then ducks back into

the hut like a cat smashed

between a row of books and

a wall. So as to share who

ever I am now with whoever

I may be awake (asleep?), I

take a red crayon out of the

kitchen drawer, the one with

all of the crayons, walk through

the living room and down the

hall, turning left into the

bathroom, turn on the

shower as hot as it

gets, and write in

red on the glass

shower door,

the outer

one: I’m

so afraid

of losing.

It’s a shame,

this grasping of

my red interior in

such an honest way

(the violence that is

honesty, I mouth a

second time, and

then a third,

testing it

out). I

clutch

my heart,

hoping to

narrowly

escape

the ironic

beauty of

certain vandalisms.

mmmcmi

Time Is Mean

it’s sunday.  i went to sleep

this morning around 9am.

woke up around 3:30 in the

afternoon.  now it’s seven

minutes to tomorrow, which

i need not say will be a mon

day when it arrives.  if it

does arrive.  and, okay, i’m

being a bit dramatic adding

what day of the week it is,

given that i do not work,

given that i am recuperat

ing from surgery, so have

no reason to feel guilty for

not being super productive

over the past few days, ex

cept i do have a reason,

given that my money is

dwindling, unemployment

payments ending in less

than a week, no job pros

pects, really, and have

been applying and inter

viewing incessantly since

my last gig, which ended

over half a year ago. so...

time. it hasn’t really been

‘on my side’ for quite a

while now, for quite some

time. oh, well. so i sit, or

mostly lie here, recovering

(i hope) from what may be

a typical ailment for a 55-

year-old, which basically

means a very scary, life-

altering event that gives

pause to a lowly human,

or should, i suppose, and

it does, only i don’t have

time for a pause.  in fact,

i’ve been about the bus

iness of trying to get

back to living for quite

some, well, time, now,

and that’s what i really,

really want to do this mo

ment. to get back to it.

tick goes the clock in

my head, and all the

various other ticking

timepieces worldwide.

tock, they all go. tick,

tock, tick, tock goes my

heart, i can feel it, lying

here, having done nothing

all day.  and now it’s mon

day.  tick.  tock.  tick.  tock.

and so i do my little trick

that sometimes works of

crawling as deep inside

of myself as i can crawl,

and i  s-l-o-w  i-t  a-l-l,

bent, hunched as much

as my body can fold,

deep as i can go within.

and i watch the 8 go to

9.  it’s 12:09am on a

monday.  tick.  tock.

tick.  tock.  hmph.

mmmcm

An Esteemed Lack of Controversy

is generally boring.
high-falutin’ love
is as mundane as
ennui. we agree,

shake hands with
a firm grip into
each other’s
fingers,

then scratch
our heads over
why such a yawn
is held up as ideal

for time immemorial.
no wonder the check-
out lanes wallpapered
with tabloids. no won

der the us versus them.
no wonder the green
that’s grabbed by
getting our goats

on the glossy
subways of
the virtual.
but that’s

concocted.
what a fraud
to live so easy
face to face

only to hop
onto our alternate
realities, be spoonfed
bait that makes us

hungry for war?
and with whom?
cartoons? or else
the network of animated

avenues has us each
craving fluffed robotic
swells of puff. our
heads gone poof

into powder like
some ugly god
stepped on us.
look at me!

strip these
idols of the
algorithms
punched into

existence by
the slave labor
from which these
monsters were

born. set yourself
free. look at me
and see my eyes.
yours are dazzling

and have al
ready set me
afire. and free.

mmmdcccxcix

An Articulation of the Hopeful

push mind
through time
for several weeks.
see what? say

“say i love you,”
but one time too
many. stop. stop.
full stop. full—stoop.

say “i do,”
but once.
don’t think
about tomorrow

evening yesterday.
everything combined
equals the weight of the
world. pick me up at

the airport
with a kiss
on the lips.
having been

warned that there’ll be
tongue: airport kisses
are a tango that—
what a

goofy
couple
—get all
tanged up,

entangled.
fly to the moon
for the bungle.
a twin-bundle of joy

that after take-off
does not disembark,
never once
disentangles.

mmmdcccxcviii

let me say a few words about tone

unfortunately, this only
works if we can do this
forever. so close your
eyes and concentrate.

the preamble was such
a rush. there were a lot
of tears. and a few sneezes.
the ceremonial match was

struck. I made a vow to
this. you made a vow to
that. then we snuck away
through the garden, which

was full of thyme and onions.
nobody knew any better.

mmmdcccxcvii

nerdy by design

14 months in a
house made of
pee. the place
where connect
icut ate rhode
island. anyth
ing could eat
rhode island.
as for pough
keepsie? he
put on his
glasses. i
turned up
my hearing
aid so that i
could hear it
when he said
“poke me.” the
distrust swells like
lava in the center of
the universe. something
about gravity wells. i think
of standing water. and
castanets. the universe
is being swallowed by
fatigue. i put on my
glasses. he turns off
his hearing aid so that
he can’t hear me snore.
there isn’t always a back
door. press the button
for the escape hatch.
don’t forget your
binocolurs or
your (too late!)
parachute.

mmmdcccxcvi

How I Lost All My Charisma

Who isn’t more charming
with a roof can’t pretend
it’s a rhetorical question.

mmmdcccxcv

poem written as if it were 2011

I’m looking good today,

strutting my stuff after

surgery. I’ve been told

that most employment

involves a lot of cleaning

bathrooms. Once you

reach the point where

‘doing the right thing’

is not quite as ‘forward-

looking’ as it used to be,

then it’s well within your

rights to become villainous.

A villain, however, must be

able to strut his stuff without

a limp (unless he’s older

then 40 and looks ‘well-worn’).

Furthermore, said gait should

not involve a series of painful

grimaces. His bills should be

neatly stacked upon the dining

room table in a standard spot

that is slightly off-center, but

each bill for no longer than until

the date which it is due. However,

this stack should gently increase its

height over time. The kitchen and

living room will be wholly redesigned

no less than once every five years.

February is generally a good month

for this to occur. Success is only

implied until the new table has been

complimented two dozen separate

times, each by different guests

on different occasions. Once the

third kitchen/living room redesign

has transpired, there should be

no more bills, not even one, not

ever, atop the dining table.

mmmdcccxciv

healthier mental & physical health

this is a medium
through which

this has been a
way for me

it is with much
difficulty that i

my honesty gets
the best of me

me and my
big mouth

i miss being able
to use my mouth

but this is
by all means

the best avenue
with which i might

tell you,
the only one

(or more or less)
for whom telling

seems the
appropriate

thing
(isn’t it

funny?
up until

now,
who

knew?)
to do