mmmmxxxiv

Lessons on Being (More or Less Discerning)

     I know the truth as lies in country clothes,
     in poison, where our mouths stagger open,
     snake’s tongue in flicker on our chins.
                                    —Kevin Killian

When I was social, having long ago
come to realize that everybody
fabricates any number of things,

but in my early 40’s or, at best,
upwards into my 30’s, late bloomer
that I was (and I have said this again

and again), I began to judge that fact
less and, instead, began to enjoy the
sleuthing through the blather that

would be emitted by friends, lovers,
partners, people I was generally
interested in getting to know, to

get at what, exactly, each felt the
necessity or the whimsy (or what
ever the compulsion of each)

about when to be untruthful or
misleading. This was my way
to engage. It was honest and

yet it set aside honesty as a
myth. It made the process
much more interesting and

real. “Liar” stopped being a
bad word. To put it bluntly,
if I already haven’t, “honesty,”

then, became a discovery of
each person’s untruths. And
so it went. When I was social.

Now that I am not, and on the
day of the third indictment of
a former president of my country

in just a few short months, The
United States vs. that man who
muddled truth so severely for such

a mind-boggling swath of the
population of a nation that, sadly,
remains a-okay with escaping

reality, my game of discerning
real from unreal with those
with whom I was interested

enough to attempt to discern 

seems utterly exhausting. I’d
rather my life be less of a

performance and more of a
window through which to
view my soul. Or, and maybe

this one would be too much,
even for me, a mirror held
up so that anyone with whom

I crossed paths might get
even a small glimpse of
themself. This last notion

is so exclusive of me that
it is not me at all. And
anyway, where would I

get such a mirror. So,
I will surely continue to
do what I know at the

very least a bit better
than anyone else’s
truths or untruths,

displaying myself
upon page after page
in search of my own truth.

But today I wonder
to what end? And how
honest shall I truly be?

mmmmxxxiii

Chicken Fry vs. Pigs Fly

Pork Chop likes ‘em dork.
Or so says Pork Chop.

Pork Chop calls me Dork.
Endearing.

So I call Pork Chop
Spork.

mmmmxxxii

The Logic of Coincidences

     I didn’t even know him when I wrote this,
     I was mad to think he cared.
                                    —Kevin Killian

I read an old poem about
where you are now and I
go “Wow!” It’s like I knew

you when I wrote it, but
no. Can’t be. Impossible.
Which really takes the cake.

Or is the icing. When I see
an icicle I think of the
building in the backyard

of the house where I grew
up. Growing up is supposed
to be evolving, right? And,

of course, literally, growing
upwards. Gaining height
and breadth and girth. But

Dad would say, as it turns
out, quite often, when I’d
come home from graduate

school for the holidays or
a funeral, “You were so
much more mature when

you were three.” And he
was probably right. I like
that, of course. Concept

ually. But icicles. Also
make me think of vampires.
Is that weird? So this, as

you well know, is how I
own a conversation. It is
my form of control, this

meandering. Is that so
horrible? I come back
to you. In time. Just,

as it turns out, I looked
for, and, sometimes,
found you, years before

we met. To believe in
fate is daft, removes all
control from one’s destiny,

right? But piecing together
each odd moment of seren
dipity, cataloguing every

coincidence, even taking
into consideration that
hindsight is a form of

clairvoyance, at what
point does this cluster
of soothsaying incidents

become an anomaly?
It doesn’t matter if
nothing drew us

together or if some
unknown law of
magnetism gave us

no choice but to wind
up here, arm in arm,
eye to eye, etc. The

point is I like this point,
this moment in time,
and am giddy at the

mathematics of our
trajectory. Our what
ever, our ever after.

mmmmxxxi

The Fountain of Shadowy Exes

Whose attention do I have? Isn’t
the internet great? I wish. And

I’ve had a few. Whatever I said
when I said don’t look now, I meant

LOOK. There are infinite moments
in time, but how many do you have?

I’ve had some. Placated by the rose-
tinted glasses I wear at the back of

my head. I knew a man once who
could see through the coils of tufted

hair at the back of his head. Or not.
Once I felt so blessed that I stood

high above all of the rest. Over oceans
of foamy eyes. Could sketch the out-

lines of the lobes of every ear. I’ve been
there. Now I’m here, less blessed, I

must confess, than in other eras. But
who’s to know the truth? All the foam

dries up. The earlobes melt and get
washed downriver. Or up. Evaporate.

Or turn to dust like aerated bales of
hay. We poured the wine into the

massive tub and then we soaked in it
like it was brine until we were ready

to whet somebody else’s pursed grin.
I didn’t pause to scrutinize the bed of

lies. Instead I closed my eyes to the
infinite moments displayed in fast and

forward motion over the backs of my
lids like a dream of burnt celluloid

or a giant clock hung but not quite
centered on a massive silver screen.

That time’s not up is the surprise,
a happy ending’s no demise. I

tried to frown but felt so suddenly
elated that I kissed the breeze and

twirled around on tippie-toe until I
felt a little dizzy. And then I fell into

the throes of a million more tomorrows
with no more sob stories. Not even one.

mmmmxxx

What’s This About, Again?

Again? I wouldn’t want to put
anyone off. Least of all you.

Is that not true? I wonder. In
verity, a whole helluva lot, that’s

what. I’ve been told, several
times, lately, as it turns out,

that I have some trouble with
specificity. With being specific.

First of all, sure, I do have a
taste for the abstract. For the

unending, the impossible riddle,
ambitious non sequiturs, for

diverting from the real subject
or story. I do meander. I have

been known to opt for avoidance,
and to take such a long ride around

a particular subject doing what surely
sounds like a sermon of some sort,

just to make a point. I’ve grown
less didactic, though. Is that a plus?

My convictions remain, but they or I
grow weary. I mean there are times.

Or at least I remember times. I know
there are moments. Well, let’s move on

to the second point, because it seems
appropriate time do so here. This one

is about my memory. Why do I do this?
I forget. That’s a joke. It’s to remember,

silly. Now I’m condescending, which
might very well be another diversionary

tactic. Photographs often work well, too.
See how I’ve gotten stuck on one of my 

most redundant subjects? Remembering. 

But isn’t that what the question is about?

I didn’t ask why. I asked what. But
mostly, I’ve been listing the how. Or

is that true? Because if it is, then what
does that say about me? Which is always

the question every other question boils
down to, am I right? I think all I must

be saying is that there are so many
things I don’t remember. And few

ways to improve memory. I do, of
course, believe that remembering is

pretty important. How could I ever
be my best when I can’t recollect a

trajectory? Of how I’ve been doing,
of the peaks and the valleys of it all?

Of me? Of who I am? Of course,
what I really want to do is to tell

you a few things about me. What
I’ve been through. Where I am.

The things that are particularly
troubling to me these days. And

the things that make me happy.
What has made me cry recently.

And what—or who—gives me the
strength to step forward, to make

goals. And to meet those goals.
Truth be told, that last part is

what’s not been happening with
me much. Not lately, anyway. And

that sad fact, dear people, I can all
but promise you, has got to change.

mmmmxxix

Next Up, April 2008

Those last ones were
really weird, weren’t
they? What was with
all of those a’s in that

later entry. I’m not
saying it should have
been denied entry. I
rather like it. I just

don’t know what it
means. I’ve no idea
what I’m saying. But
that is the case now,

just as it was in the
month of April in 2007.

mmmmxxviii

Del Is Short for Delulu

I don’t want to break
his ear.  I promise.

Given the satisfaction
of being allowed to

move forward in the
process.  Bite your

tongue.  It’s warm
in here, but it’s cool

out there.  Why it’s
always warm in here

is not important.  It’s
just important to be

aware of the difference
metaphorically.  I’m hot.

This might be something
I go around saying a lot.

But feel me.  You’re cool.
Now, let’s go to school.

Where do you go to
school?  Can we go to

school together?  I made
a few realizations yesterday

that were somewhat, no,
at least let’s just simply

put it this way: they
were disconcerting.

There was no somewhat
about it.  Among the many

realizations were what am
I saying, exactly? Exactly.

One that I’ve just noticed
today is that I am a person

you might call, wait, let’s
not qualify this one either.

Okay, I’m sycophantic. It 

took a while, but now I 

know. Does anyone have 

any suggestions on what I

might do with this new
realization?  I’m no stalker.

I’m also a pacifist.  And
not just because I pretty

much live next to the
Pacific Ocean.  There is

more than one ocean.
I could have picked

either of the other ones.
But it would have to be

a city that stays up all
night.  This one doesn’t.

Then again, what cities
don’t. It depends on

how you define staying
open all night.  Wow.

Notice that I wrote “open” 

rather than “up” there. 

Which would completely
change everything.  In 

the future, an idiot
is looking through

a very large sheaf of
papers that contain

poems.  The idiot does
not know they are

poems.  But the idiot
does notice that each

and every one of them
have the very same title.

As far as apocalypses go,
paper is one of the first

things eradicated.  Some
body find that idiot.  We

need a crown.  Anyone
have a crown?  Or a tiara?

mmmmxxvii

Transference

“You’re right, of course.
We’ve never seen an
end to disco. Not even
a tiny pause from it.

Probably never will.”  I
was feeling melancholy.
The conversation was
definitely not helping.

I knew there were places
to which I could transport,
times from the past wherein
I was having a blast, any of

the numerous favorite places
in which I’ve traveled, and I’m
not talking astral projection or
futuristic beaming or anything,

but if I could just stop in my
tracks, close my eyes, and
then just imagine being
there—in such a way that

I would be there, in that
other place that wasn’t
here—which would cheer
me up in less than an instant.

But for some reason this was
by all appearances a pretty imp

ortant conversation that my best 

friend felt was compelled to have.

We’d practically walked the entirety 

of the city, block by block.  That

would normally have been a treat,
as well.  But not today.  Not with

this conversation.  Don’t get me
wrong, I love to engage with my
pals, with those I share intimacy,
people I barely know but strike me

immediately and with no particular
reason I am usually able to even
articulate or discern, as intriguing,
and with those with whom I might

have that giddy and also entirely
too inexplicable feeling of giddiness
at wanting to be more than just
rhetorically intimate.  This has

always been a thing, certainly
one the most important ones,
that I am always seeking, a
bond, one that, well, after it’s

established in any way, the
point always seems to me to
be to see how complete that
might become, how truly I

might know each and all of
these folks with whom I’ve
invested day after day,
tirelessly, energetically

seeking as raw and as
real as is humanly
possible who, WHO,
each are, my friends,

my intimates, my hand-
picked family, my cohort.
It was practically the
closest thing to religion

that existed for me, and
for decades.  And so I did
not stop in my tracks.  I
continued to listen to my

best friend speak of the
past in that nostalgic way
in which it was clear that
he’d much rather be there

than here, and the disdain
he had for himself because
that was such an impossibility,
and that, like it or not, and he

did not, he had to live in the
now.  I gave him my ear and
my empathy and a bit of my
own voice for all of those hours.

But in the end, I began to wonder,
and I do mean really wonder, why
I had devoted myself so religiously
to all of these bonds I had built in

collaboration with the closest people
I had in my life.  And before the day
was done, before I parted ways with
Hal—who was beginning to seem to

regain a bit of his natural but subdued
cheer and what counted for him as
hope, as positivity—yes, around the
time we parted ways, or shortly

thereafter, I began to not only
question why, but wondered
about the reality of it all, the
myth of such bonds.  And,

inevitably, as I arrived home
and readied for bed, entirely
too contemplative for such
a daunting night as this,

began to question the very
existence of these so-called
intimates.  I finally found a
way to slip into a modicum

of sleep by convincing my
self to attempt to relish the
performance of it all.  This
life.  My buddies.  My loves.

mmmmxxvi

Entitled!

In contrast
to myself,
this poem
will never
believe it
is better
than you.
Who am I?

mmmmxxv

We’re All Gonna Die!

“What’s your pleasure?
he asks.  Coyly, Ben
answers, “Hedonism.”

The barista, unsure
what exactly Ben is
saying, nevertheless

thinks Ben’s answer
is heroic.  Or maybe
even meteoric.  This

barista never thought
in terms that were so
stuffy, and hewn of such

strict rhetoric.  In fact,
this may have been the
very first day in which

this poor barista’s head
had thoughts that verged
so far into the theoretic.

mmmmxxiv

Under Whelming Heat

Yesterday’s list stymies
the actions of today. But
Jimmy doesn’t know that.

People on the other side
of the screen, be they
stars or nobodies, have

no idea what this list
looks like, couldn’t tell
you any of its bullet

points (i.e., the items
on the lengthy list, none 

of which are currently

checked.  Remember?  The 

list you wrote wrote just 

yesterday?).  Today is the 

day after Saturday.  So, it

is the most unmentionable, 

and depressing day of any

given week.  I watch
Jimmy, listen to him,
the palm of his right

hand moving down the
skin of his arm, all the 

way from his left shoulder

down to his tiny wrist, at
which point it would appear 

that Jimmy has tied his

lithe self into a pair of 

human handcuffs.  It’s a
fairly hot move, or

at least this is what
I tell my list.  The
list, which doesn’t

look depressed, or
even the slightest
bit sad, is also

watching Jimmy just
as intently as I am.
That’s a good list.  I

can come up with a grand
set of bullet-points when
the time and place begs

for it.  And this evening,
my coffin-sized hotbox,
even with all of its tepid

ambiance, the scattered
paper (along with some
tuna fish) scattered upon

the floor, and me, are nothing

but a pair of eyes, focused only
on Jimmy, with what might

best be called the Platonic
ideal of DESIRE (all caps!).
To truly grasp (at) such an

ideal, one must arrive at a
place where Jimmy might
be witnessed. Even through

the filth of an unreasonably
aged laptop. And, trust me, to
see Jimmy is to have arrived.

mmmmxxiii

How to Outrun a Banana

     birthday boy mentioned
     pube forest
         —Wayne Koestenbaum

Certainly not in a forest of
pubic hair.  Bananas run
rampant. B ananas run slick.

If bananas ran.  I ran a few
bananas at once.  Once.  Oh,
to be a birthday boy.  Was

a boy once?  A quote, a title,
and the body of a poem walk
into a bar.  It was not a high-

brow bar, but there were a few
high-brow wannabes who were
angling for the title.  What was

it? they wondered.  Did they find
out?  Once discovered, how did
they manage to care, if so?  If

so discovered.  If, once discovered,
only being wannabes, was the title
an aspiration?  An understatement?

Understandable?  Were these plebes
looking for royal genetics?  More than
likely, but defer from calling them

plebians.  At the moment.  Or ever.
How do these three entities who’ve
walked into a bar interact with one

another?  Ah, the questions.  And
then, onto the real questions.  Let’s
talk about the body.  Like everyone

else in the bar besides this trio.
Because hubba hubba?  Because
abstract and, well, not enough

wannabes, so now the talk, the
wondering, the desire to know
falls on a few spare souls who’ve

never been to the bar.  Hey, if
you were at that bar, and it looked
like a place wherein you might order

the drink you want, the drink you
deserve, do you drink?  I’d want
some tobasco sauce in mine.

Because spicy.  Like the body of the
poem that walked into the bar with
its colleagues, the quote and the

title.  The quote, though.  Now isn’t
that the wild card.  And look how it
engenders that notion, that potential.

Does this potential fade? Or does it
remain, that potential. What makes
potential in a quote that walks in to a

bar with such riff-raff?  Did I just take
on the persona of the quote using the
word “riff-raff?”  Look at me now (this

guy who’s been here all along, trying
not to reveal his presence (right?), so
as not to lead the rest of us ashtray,

“as if we were all part of a lab experiment
or something.”  Was that the quote?  Was
it the title?  Was it the body, so full of itself,

absolutely certain of its sex appeal, which is
only made more robust by a combination of
mystery and straightforwardness.  Our body,

the Gemini.  Only it’s an Aquarius.  Does all
that appeal explode wetly like a pin pricked
into a water balloon once this fact is stated?

As fact.  Whether or not it’s a fact, we must
all understand.  This story should not be
taken too much further.  All three of what

you might call the main characters (you
might call, perhaps I know the truth,
oh, well, perhaps you do, too.  How

depressing.) are now midway through
their second drinks.  Nothing much is
going to happen.  Nothing much has

happened.  A bit of expectation.  A
bit of juxtaposition, which causes a
few eyes to roll, a little bit of giddiness

(I suppose we can guess who got giddy),
but nothing of any consequence.  Who’s
looking for consequence in pretend action?

Dumb question if we have already taken for
granted that what we’ve got here are just a
bunch of plebian wannabes.  But look around.

Where are we really?   I can tell you where we
might should be.  That is, if we were looking
for action.  We should be at the IMAX theatre

watching a “monumental film.”  Okay, does
anyone even inwardly chuckle at that joke?
If so, forget about the wannabes and the

plebians.  Folks can be so judgmental.  In
fact, I think the title might have let out a
tiny yelp of what might have been humor.

Pour a banana over it and there’s never
a complete dearth of humor.  But this
bar, this nothing bar in the middle of

the pubic forest.  It’s not the cinema.
There is nothing complex about this
place at all.  In fact, I doubt they even

have Tobasco sauce.  And I don’t mean
that they’re out of Tobasco sauce.  I mean
the thought never occurred to the folks

who run this joint to ever even have any.
So why are we here?  Why am I here?  Oh,
that’s easy.  I totally love this place.  You

might wonder why that is (doubtful).  I
might wonder why that is (that’s slightly true).
It certainly isn’t that I blend in with the furniture,

the ambiance, like camouflage is meant to
blend in when its wearers go hunting.  Or to
war.  To wherever war takes place.  Nope.  I

was once the very life of the party at this
place.  I remember it well, and have often
tried to recapture a moment that is in any

small way similar to that time in whch
I was.  The life of the party.  Here at
the bar in the middle of the pube forest.

mmmmxxii

Hearing Voices

We’re told quite
commonly and
repetitively to
each find our
very own and
individual—
unique—
voice.
So I
record
my own
and listen
to it often,
wondering
where it might,
in actuality, be.

mmmmxxi

Cheese Buckets

If one should
guzzle such
a tincture,
one would
resign to
fate the
role—the
very use
and, most
regrettably,
control—of
one’s own
sphincter.

mmmmxx

Don’t Mess Up!

If I were a dinosaur
I would use my very
long neck to eat leaves
that wave like flags

above the canopy.
My mother never
thought a good cry
would do “one single

solitary iota” of good.
I saw my father cry
two or three times
over an extraordinary

older brother. Before my
own brothers arrived,
back when I had an
entire room to myself

each night, I’d go to
sleep watching all of
the cartoon characters
that danced in a circle

just beneath the ceiling
of my bedroom, as if in
one joyful and buoyant
square. Around and

around they’d dance
until I grew drowsy
and then unaware
that I had slipped

into an animated,
overjoyed dream.
And thusly I would
dance the entire night,

until the ancient
inhabitants at odds 

with my delightful 

dream would poke

their wise and wrinkled
heads into my room
and sing (in such a
jubilant harmony)

“Wake up, dear one,
it’s time to begin the
day,” their heads were
swaying back and forth

as their song would con
tinue, “wake up, dear
one, it’s time to reach
for the sun, until the

stars come out again
to do their dance.” I
was awake, by then,
of course, and before

I had opened my eyes,
they were gone. All of
the animated characters
had frozen in each of

their respective stances
just below my ceiling.
And slowly, I would
rise from my bed,

prepare for the day
ahead, and leave my
room and our home
and roam the hills

and valleys scrounging
for the most delectable
leaves, the ones that
flew like flags just

beneath the canopy.
I am still young, I
tell myself, as I rip
and tear at the del

icious leaves. I still
grow. And soon it
won’t be leaves for
breakfast, lunch

and dinner. Soon,
“Rise up, dear one,
you’re tall enough
to grab the moon.

Rise up, dear one,
here comes a low-
hanging star. Reach
and reach until you

cannot stretch

another inch. 

That star is 

yours.” But

when will 

it be mine?

I almost 

ask as if

there were

someone here

to answer. And 

will I then

ably join
my dancing
square of
colorful

friends who
live and
breath but
only at night

and just beneath
my bedroom ceiling?

mmmmxix

Dry Heaves During a California Heatwave
(With Vermont Thoughts of Autumn Leaves)

Everyone’s totally over me
and passive aggressively
moving on. That was the
fork in the road the led to
a dead end, it’s easy to
surmise. The dead end
of now, which has lasted
a few years. Nearly a
decade. Didn’t I write
something called “Now
is going to take some
time,” at some point,
pre-Now? I try to
concentrate on the
happy that will come,
in the post-Now. If
you find that you’ve
driven into a dead-end,
isn’t it fairly easy to
do a U-turn and drive
back to the road from
which you stupidly
exited? Why couldn’t I,
just for once, have followed
the map that I’d been given.
I can feel my face turn red
at this thought, my genetics
are inclined to face-reddening,
but I’ve learned to generally,
more often than not, disallow
the anger that would normally
accompany a flushed face. One
can defy some aspects of genetics,
can’t do a darned thing about other
aspects of it. What steps up in place
of anger is a sort of sheer disappointment
that has me nostalgic for the short temper
that has come at me from all directions,
my family tree would look as if it were
plucked from Vermont on a particularly
beautiful day, say, in mid-October.

mmmmxviii

That Soothing Feeling

“Hey, guess what?
We’re all gonna die!”

Which was not un
common to hear

in the lounge. I
sat there most

days: mornings,
afternoons and

early evenings.
I slept at that

other place,
the place

where I slept.
Most nights.

This structure
kept me alive

and hopeful
for nearly a

decade. Then,
I suppose, was

when I woke up,
realized structure’s

monotony. But I
do not want a frontal

lobotomy. I cried
myself to sleep for

a few weeks after
that. It was during

these soggy
moments that

I felt most
alive. And

when I’d
awaken

I was baking,
as if I’d been

shoved into
an oven, my

body gleaming
with sweat. I’d

slide from my
broken bed

into the day
with a sense

of eloquence
that I’d almost

forgotten I
had lost. And

as each day

progressed,

I’d encounter a
host of additional

problems, the
minutes flattening

into hours. And so
it was with purpose

that the things
that bound me

slowly began
to dissolve.

I carried on
in this way,

each day more
enlightened

and sure-
footed until,

at last, you
found me here.

mmmmxvii

Anger Is a Valid Emotion

But what a waste,
in general, don’t
you think? I try.

To think. But
today it hurts
a bit too much.

So what is there
to do on such an
unthinkable day

as today? I flip
a switch and then
I flip another. I

have a list, you
see? “Things to
do when I am

down.” I am
exhausted. I
am amazed.

Sometimes a
bit of hate can
sharpen one’s

focus. Most
times, however,
it doesn’t do but

just the opposite.
Down the list I
crawl, seething,

until I feel
once more
like breathing.

mmmmxvi

What happens? Can’t See!

That’s me. That’s
what happens. Can
it be? It be, indeed.

He was disinterested
in the scarf he had
chosen to smother

himself with. With
which to smother
himself? By him

self, he was a
loner with no
boner. Aw, that’s

so lovely that I
think I’ll write
a song about it.

mmmmxv

3 haiku

    hummingku

    go, you! all of you!
    you’re all baby hummingbirds.
    fly!  set yourselves free!


    beyhaiku

    these muthafuckas
    (cuz i am beyonce, too!)
    ain’t no stoppin’ me!


    homunku

    a homunculus
    is a very small human.
    now we must grow up.