mmmmlxvii

A Life of Crime

“It’s a Good Thing You Don’t Mean That!”
I say this wholeheartedly convinced. As
if that’s a given. Whatever, I’m being
proactive. Things go downhill from there.

Because what if you did? if he did?
It never fails, when the anxiety raises its
overgrown head, the doubt arrives shortly
thereafter. Del is short for delulu. And for

delusional, deleterious, delete. Delinquent
(but, alas, no juvenile). Speaking of teen
agers, I can’t wait to get paid, no matter
how little, because I have really got to get

some deodorant. Which reminds me of the
last time I did. I was shopping at Target, had
quite a pile in the cart, after I’d emptied the
items onto the conveyor belt and wheeled it

around to collect my groceries – wouldn’t you

know it? – a seven dollar stick of deodorant
remained stuck in the bottom corner of my cart.
Well, as I was wheeling away, I surreptitiously

picked it up and snuck it into one of the bags
full of paid for items as I was wheeling it over
to the shopping cart repository (I call it the
Shopping Cart Lounge). Bingo, just like that,

I smelled okay for a month or two for free!
Now I’m a shoplifter. If you would have told
me this would be the case when I was an
adolescent I would have gotten angry and

vehemently and sincerely berated you for
saying such a cockamamie thing. Anyhow,
now that I’ve had a little bit of time to really
mull it over, I’m pretty sure he meant it. This

is so horrific that my anxiety becomes acid
reflux. Delineate, delegate, Delta Dawn, Delroy
Lindo, [almost weeping now] Adore Delano (for that
matter, Bianca Del Rio), Del Taco, Delmore Schwartz...

mmmmlxvi

Looking Forward to It

Tomorrow,
in the world
of the almost
never, I del
iver. As in,
you know,
do it. Only
it’s tonight
and I’m no
groundhog.
I don’t think
so. Nope, I
don’t, in this
sink or swim
universe (all
four thousand
sixty-six of
them).
These few
thoughts
gird the
landscape
of our pur
view, until
noon. Or
thereab
outs.
I sin
cerely.
I, a simp,
simply
cannot
wait to
meet
you.
This
was
said
to the
flying butt
resses that
held up the
clouds in our
purview. They
were legion, the
buttresses, our
thoughts, the
clouds, tonight,
tomorrow and
around about
noon.

mmmmlxv

Urk

Let’s just say
I work. I urk
legitimately.

The irky imp
that really
temps

is too realist
ic. Let’s just
say I’m out

of ink for the
timestamp.
We have

those (with
nachos). “But
who gives a

lipstick?” asks
the surrealistic
impish jerk.

“Not I,” said
the secret
spy, red

undantly.
Let’s just
say I

hurt the
gob-search
website.

Going for
ward, I
prim

rose to be
a less

loose

less verb

ose user
loser.

mmmmlxiv

In Poor Taste

we ate a bunch of
silly lizards with
no gizzards, arms
akimbo. meaning
ours and not those
of the greenish fiends.
some say that they’re
tasteless, but not us.
while they ain’t no
bobbin’ apples,
that’s for sure,
we found a dash
of cinnamon with
a smidge of fresh
turmeric helped
‘em go down
mighty swell,
those stinkers’
smelly scales,
their wriggly
tails and those
bugged-out
hyper-frantic
skittering
eyes and all.

mmmmlxiii

Adjustments

i cat fight
2 boys today.
the missy is
astounded.  we
took a bunch 4
our tumblers,
us fumblers,
us bumblers,
but weren’t
a fray.  a 6
drive only til
cum next
bleak.  r
fodder on
the mend 2
demon. ‘do
missy,’ he
zests in 2u,
‘go thistle
at duh zee i
glasses shore.
administer
adjudication.’
cat c unless
we arbored.
r lenses fried.
bat vin r i’ve
the hay gouda’s
knew.  flip sun
sockets wheeze
seize.  socks
fallen. gnome
on sleaze.
o the seas!
we’s a lie!

mmmmlxii

Seismic Maneuvers

I’m not a drama queen, 

darling.

I’m simply a drag queen.

mmmmlxi

Just Another Wannabe

Think of me again
(declaratively,
long-handed
pun perhaps
intended?).
Do you think
me modestly,
or perhaps even
exceedingly (don’t
stretch it, you idiot,
he thinks, addressing
himself, I have to believe)
intelligent?  If so, would
that be inherent?  Do
I approach genius
or am I just an
over-achiever.
I mean, if you
think I am
at all intellectual?
Only, if you’d be so
kind as to indulge
the over-indulgent,
please don’t answer
any of these questions,
as I don’t want my
personal beliefs
on such matters
to be sullied in
any way.

mmmmlx

Suck My Smug

If you think of
me at all (a
loaded question,
surely), do you
think me cocky?
Do you assume
or believe that
I am a generally
smug individual?
Even though I’ve had
a solid set of recent
years that have
humbled me like
no other, this is
something I’m

worried about
this cool and
early morning
before going to
work at the first
job I’ve had in
over fourteen
months, fourteen
months in which I
have had more job
interviews (times
four?  maybe more!)
than I’ve had during

any fourteen month 

period of my life, during
which I have also faced 

the most significant
health struggle,
a surgery to
remove cancer
that essentially
kept me down
for no less than
three of those
months.  And
this lovely little
parcel of employ
ment will have
lasted, by the
time I finish
my contract
a week from
today, a total
of seven full
days.  But this 

question of 

smugness keeps
creeping up on me,
has me worried,
keeps drifting into
my consciousness.
Beneath the other

thoughts sunk into
the mire, like the
worrisome threats
of living under the
never-very-subtle-
anymore movements
toward living in an

autocracy. Plus it
keeps coming to my
attention that despite 

steadfast attempts at being
transparent, always an 

earnest and primal goal of mine,
it never seems to work.  As I read it,

I am seen in aggregate

to be overwhelmingly 

misunderstood.

Am I, in general, a
cocky, condescending
misunderstood human 

being?  What others 

think they understand

about you or me can
often differ wildly with
how we think of our
selves, sure.  But
just the notion that
I might give the
impression that
I believe myself
to be better, at
some higher level,
than you, or than
anyone else, given
what have seemed
honest reactions to
my approach over
the years, by people
with whom I’ve spent
enough time that you’d 

hope they’d know a bit

of what’s real about me, gives 

me such pause, and has for

a while.  And now,

as I’m constantly 

attempting to claw my way 

out of a mire I have been 

sunk into for years toward
freedom, I work daily to

reconcile these things,

and to understand not

so much who I ever was,

but who I am,
existing as I do

with such intent,

so firmly in the 

present.  These
meanderings, to
me, seem of some
relevance, seem worthwhile
to mull over this morning, 

this cool morning, a couple 

of hours before I will head into

what is so rare for me of late:

a new day of paid labor.

mmmmlix

No Fashion Icon

Bette Davis
looked into
the eyes of
Robert Wise
and forgot
her lines,
but just
for a mo
ment.
She’d
already
failed to
mention
most of
the nom
inees. He
must have
been a bit
freaked out
by all of this
absurd upstaging,
but yet he began
to plow into
his little no
thing of a
speech,
but only
for a mo
ment, for
after just
a few
short
words,
Ms. Davis
would
int
er
upt
him
to say a
few words
about Newman,
for whom Wise
was accepting
the Oscar, but
mostly to regale
our dear Mister
Wise, for she
was clearly
a fan, with
accolades
for his acc
omplishments,
which, with late
Bette Davis aplomb,
she noted, included
two academy awards
himself. So that by
the time Wise was
awkwardly able
to accept the
Oscar on
Paul’s
behalf,
he was
surely
quite flus
tered. But
his eyes cert
ainly gave none
of that away. It
brushed off the
awkwardness of
the late Bette
Davis as
she is
who
she is,
along with
the fact that
now the academy
award for best actor
in a leading role
was all but
forgotten, just
like that part
in The Color
of Money,
even though
its recipient
remains most
assuredly burned
into the memories
and hearts of a
vast and aging
accumulation
of those of
us who’d
never
grace
the
silver
screen
(and no
small number
of those who have).

mmmmlviii

Thirsty

I shall have
water and
seaweed,
hunger
says to
thirst.
When
I was
born I
was very
thirsty. This
I’ve been told.
Oh, when I
was three
I was given
a treasure
and told to
build bold
buildings
out of it,
these blocks,
these alphabet
blocks. I had a
dad was an over
achiever, or so he
projected, so focused
on me. And so every
day I would play with
these letters, make
words, make
wallops of
blocks until
architecturally
gargantuan,
whopping
mounds
with infinite
mouthed
alphabetical
sounds. I
know that
all this was
not playing
for dad, a
father who’d
just barely
earned his
own high
school
diploma.

But he
had me
(with me

only three)
most every
morning
snagging
the Southwest
Time Record
just for the
crossword
(and often
I’d rip out
the funnies
as well).
Years later
he’d tell me
he had not
one earthly
idea what to
do with a son
who would
take to his
bed all day
long of a
weekend,
my nose
nearly
closed
inside of
a book
for hour
upon
hour
as if
nearly
half
blind.
But what
was I saying
to start with
of thirst? It’s
not that I forgot,
I assure you,
it’s just, well,
I was thinking
how that single
word has become
so lascivious, so
trendy, so off-
kilter from
how I had
all my life

used it,
and in this
new way
can often
be found
tucked
into smarty-
pants sentences
all cute-like
by folks
whose
ages
times
three
would
perhaps
approach
mine. “I
guess she
was thirsty,”
they’d say
and at first
I’d get all
crinkled and
flummoxed.
“Oh, Grandpa!
It just means
she wanted
some action.”
Now action’s
a word that,
too, has a
few different
meanings, but
the action the
youngsters were
speaking of was
something that
was quite familiar
to me, and a word
I had used in that
context on many
an occasion. But
thirst? Well,
quite never,
not once, until
right about
today, or
so thanks
to giddily
listening
to these
young folks
chitter and
chatter. That’s
all I was thinking
up at the beginning
of this skinny bit of
silliness. So of course
my mind wanders a
bit until just at off-

kilter, lost for a while
as I often am within
and around the
great wonder of
of words and how
they’ve been such
sheer joy for me
much more often
than not 

and ever
since I
was a wee
kid of three.
They say that
our languages
are now evolving
but faster and faster,
perhaps in an effort to
keep up with the times.
With this I am fine. And
while I might be out of the
loop with most of the lot
of this exponential evolution,
I don’t mind catching as much
as I can, before it’s too late
and I’ve lasted until I’ve no
longer a mind, or else I’m
quite simply flat out of
time. Read to me a
few new meanings,
but forget not
the old ones.
Youth is
lovely
company,
to put it
quite simply,
and makes living
seem longer and
ageless for those
like me who’ve been

here a while

and might 

be deemed

out of touch.

mmmmlvii

I Am the Only Human in This Room

Have I told you lately that I
am a hermit? What did you
think, that I am an extrovert?
I am, as it turns out. Or was.
No, actually, still am. I take
the Myers-Briggs test just for
fun on occasion, ever since I
found out twenty-some years
ago that, rather than the stand-
offish introvert I’d believe I was
for so many years, that I was
over three-quarters of the way
across the vector on the other
side. I’ve said it before, but dis
covering this utterly altered my
existence. Just as an example,
it became clear to me that my
weirdness in unfamiliar social
situations was due to anxiety,
but yet I needed the proximity
to other people that comes from
these events, and that me being
a wallflower at clubs, but yet so
consistently going back to them,
even if I was by myself and did
not talk to a soul the entire night
gave me just the zip I’d need. I
like to relate it to a vampire’s
need for blood. But about being
a hermit, well, there are immense
drawbacks for a person who gets
his energy from being around
human bodies. An example
is loud and clear in these
lines, as I’ve discussed
this dilemma a number
of times. I’ve become
the old man who just
repeats the same few
stories over and over
again. I’ve run out
of new things to
talk about, as
I’m stuck in
my room
most days
twenty-four/
seven. Not
to mention
the distinct
lack of focus
and mojo from
getting the, well,
the nourishment
necessary to keep
those like me up-
tempo and focused.
It’s not that I don’t
stay busy in my little
coffin-sized hotbox
most days. I do.
But it’s not the
kind of busy
that one
writes
home
about.
So, with
apologies,
I’ll try to do
better. Perhaps
thinking this way,
of how it affects
what I take more
seriously than
almost any
thing, these
maudlin lines
that are sent
out to you on
a regular basis,
will give me
just the gusto
I need to get
back out into
the world again.
So, here’s to that.
If nothing else. 
I’m staring
at the door.
It remains
closed. I’m
getting drowsy.
And on that, I 

remain yours.
Perhaps
tomorrow I’ll
twist that
knob and
venture out
somewhere.
Yeah.

mmmmlvi

My Muumuu Was a Boo-Boo

And that is just how she felt,
while at the same time feeling
generally sad about her trip to
the tropics.  Glen would have
none of this.  “Your dress was
divine, and you have nothing
to do with the heat.”  Which
had her thinking about her
father, who’d say, despite
the fact that he’d grown
up in Minneapolis and
was a Southern trans
plant, “If you can’t
stand the heat,
get out of the
kitchen!”
Kitchens are
universally warm,
when in use, thought
Charlie, to himself, as he
lay alone in his bed, a bed
in which he’d been lying alone
most every night now for some
two decades.  He’d been thinking
of Geraldine and Glen and their fateful
evening.  Plus he was parched.  He’d gone
through this over and over in his head
for the past six years. The anniversary
of the tragic event was coming up the
next day, which he knew, he could
never seem to un-know.  And the
event was something, impending
anniversary or no, that he’d
dwelt upon, had used way
too much of his headspace
mulling over, ever since.
Mainly, he wondered
about the reference
to the South.  The
hot kitchen quote,
he knew, was
widely attrib
uted to Pres
ident Harry S.
Truman from
way back in
1942, when
he was still
a state senator
in, of all places, Idaho.
Charlie’d never once been 

to Idaho (though a sweet lady
with whom he’d had the pleasure
of taking out to the movies a few times
back in his early 20s had moved to Coeur
d’Alene, although she’d done this without
letting him know until she was there, in a
rather spare letter that had a commemorative
stamp emblazoned with the portrait of Lyndon B.
Johnson, sometime when Charlie was, well, in his
early 20s), but he’d always had the distinct impression
that it was not a place known for its heat.  Kitchens,
however, were, he supposed, potentially, when in
some use, rather warm.  That, he supposed, was
universal.  He wondered if these assumptions of 

his were in any way unduly biased and decided
that, in the grand scheme of things, it
really didn’t matter.  But that was
Charlie for you, always dismissing
any thoughts that required further
layers of contemplation or that,
when stuck in his head for a
moment seemed to come to
a fork or split or wall that
indicated that to think
further on the subject
would require a tad
more complexity
than he was
willing to
give it. Ex
cept when those

thoughts went back to 

the actual tragedy, which

they then did, right to that
one moment on that fateful
evening that had no inherent
complexity, was as straightforward
as such things go, was just a one-lane
road that he could putter upon with whatever
speed the rest of him might be going, meeting
no traffic whatsoever, hardly even a curve in the
road, with the horizon lit in some way or another
by a rising or falling sun, or a bold and heavy moon
that he generally could not see but that would be
impossible not to be that he was nevertheless at all
times aware of, like the rows of streetlamps which he’d 

pass at an always steady rate, which, when he had 

the passenger window, next to which there’d never

once be a passenger, open even the slightest bit,
he’d hear a steady whump! (pause) whump!
(pause) whump! come at him at a steady rate

while his shadow, and this was something he 

didn’t really consciously notice, would
move quickly from the dashboard in
front of him to the back seat, and
consistently, and with ever-
increasing speeds, move
nearer to him until
whump! back it
was at the
dashboard
again.
Then...

mmmmlv

     Map. Room. Harp. Sunrise.
                       —Jack Spicer

The lull of night has my
mind everywhere. Night

becomes morning, but it
is yet dark out my window

onto the courtyard of no
thingness. Which is who

I was, nothingness, for
many years. Until today.

What makes this day so
different? What used to

be normal. What used to
be normal? My thoughts

seem almost everywhere
and nowhere. Nowhere

rides or glides over or
through mountains, up

then down then up then
down then up then up,

until it finds a vast op
ening, a yellow field as

seen from this far above
surrounded by a misshaped

circle of trees. Oh, please,
am I not the same person

as always? I dare to hope.
For this disease of decline

is there even a cure? At
one time, or until quite

recently, I was desperate.
What have I given in to that

has me now at ease, a new
phase? There are things to

consider. For example, to
day is like no other. Which

can be said of any morning 

at 5:09am. I stare at the tiny

corner clock that I can barely
see (my eyesight has quickly

devolved; this, too, makes a
day different, but than what?)

until it is 5:11am. I must get
dressed, this day being so dif

ferent and all. To be a myst
ery is to be silly. Without at

least a figment of humor, I
flail. Is flailing failure? Will

I live to find the answer to
this question? If each day

is different.... No, if norm
alcy has receded, let’s say

(with hope) for now, then to
ward what should I now aspire?

Should I rephrase the question?
This new way is (not) my question.

I seek answers about this day.
This new day. Is it the end of

an era? Was the ending era
as bleak as it seemed? Will

it get better before, perhaps,
getting worse? It does seem

such a waste to glide or ride
through this, or any, experi

ence without such question
ing. But from where did all

this newfound peace derive?
Why now? And what to do with

my lack of interest in probing
this matter? Dawn arrives.

mmmmliv

The Ghost Rush

All is not lost. We are
not all ghosts, even as
the world burns. I hurt
or heard something I did
not explode or experience.
I meant this, but that was
a minute ago. Now I sit
parched upon a scorched
blunder. Under what used
to be trees or stars. Aw,
heck, I lost my invitation
to the party. I wipe my
bleary eyes and hunch
into a crooked scrunch
to ponder over theories,
remembering first the
bust of the boom.
How high we rode
each arc until how
fun we fell like
rollercoasters.

mmmmliii

Why Am I So Happy?

I replanted your tree
in a stranger’s yard.
I can’t say if this was
after the hurricane or
before the earthquake.
Who cares? I’m happy.
That would about sum
it up were it not for the
lack of time to do all of
the things that must be
done by deadline, which
is either immediate or
impossible. Ask me
how I’m doing. All
is in peril if not lost.
Wait. It’s ice cream
time. I don’t dawdle
on my way to the next-
door store and back.
Peanut butter cup.
Yum. Oh, I have
such a headache
for love. I’m not
ill, if you will, I’m
just having a bit
of gas. Feels like
a heart attack
must surely
feel.
Who
feels?
What’s
the deal?
This is not
sad, definitely
not. The last Ice
Age says “Drive, drive
you slow-poke!” The echoes
of which reach me through time
at light speed after light years. Oh,
I feels.

mmmmlii

Out of Harm’s Way

                 throw myself in
     ample handfuls of existence
     in a direction where my body
     won’t be harmed or intimidated
                    —Wayne Koestenbaum

these
words
repre
sent
one
long
slow
boat
to
china
with
me
in
it.

mmmmli

Rashes to Ashes
Bust to Crust

if you look closely
you can see my
eye squeeze out
a solitary teardrop.

i’ve got chills with
this illness, a nausea
ad nauseum, the
forecast is bathroom.

saturday’s gloom
gives itself to doom
as i’ve not even the
change for an alka-

seltzer, nothing
with which to
purchase a spare
aspirin or advil, &

i’m so weak that i
couldn’t evacuate
my broken bed
if, let’s say, i had

to. what’s worse
than the weak
ness of illness
that renders

the woozy
immobile?
an urgent
need to

purge,
and no
way of
knowing

from which
end the ick
ity geyser’ll
first blow.

mmmml

Stagnant w/
Excessive Phantasms
(an inert blow-by-blow)

holy hercules
my might bites—
all day and what
to do to soften the

blow? go go go?!
no no no! any
excuse to stall
(like the doctor

didn’t call at 8am
like i’d been told

he would), like i’m 

old? have i not re

tired? “has he not 

retired?” i wonder if 

anyone i ever knew 

(almost all of whom

don’t talk to me
anymore, so how
would i ever know?)
wonders at such.

about me. me?
oh, i don’t know.
wonders never
cease, they say.

but who’d wonder,
really? nobody, i
presume. which
has me down, as

well as stalling
just mulling over
such nonsense.
what was next?

oh, a little inter
view for a tiny
gig, which, lo
and behold (!!)

i’ve supposedly
nabbed. when
at the desk at
this mere 8-day

job is when i’ll
believe it. such
has been my luck
for a baker’s dozen

years. i could be
almost sitting,
zazen, but really
i’m just cross-

legged here in
the hole where
my head goes
at the top of

my bed, tap-
tap-tapping
at my laptop
just to say i

did but one
thing at least,
or two—there
was that lovely

interview, after
all. why, i should
be celebrating!
but how? since i

haven’t a dime
to my name. my
name, should any
one want to recall,

is drowning in a
cesspool some
where with the
last of my mojo.

jojo? you mofo!
he’s the gogo
dancer in my
head, which

might also be
a reason for
my sheer del
inquency. yo,

jo, might you
jump in the
sewer to re
trieve but a

smidge of my
mojo, my dear
gogo? then,
perhaps, might

you be game
for a little show?
i’d like to say
there’d be a

little something
in it for you, oh
jojo my gogo my...
well, that certainly

didn’t work. he’s
already out with
a slam of the do’.
oh, well. oh, woe.

mmmmxlix

The Feminine Annex

walking through tokyo one afternoon
i passed the feminine annex.  there
didn’t seem to be a lot going on.  i
was very tempted to steamroll into
the facility with all of the femininity
that i could muster, which, truth be
told, would surely have been
quite a disaster, a total
embarrassment.  but femininity is an

indelible aspect of who i am, even as

the notion might be overly cliché. but 

i like to think it is the way i roll. only i 

didn’t  roll that way on that day.  perhaps i 

think too highly of myself.  one thing that

i can say about this subject is that any time 

spent in attempt of getting in touch with 

my feminine side, however that might exist

within me might be difficult or awkward, 

but i do believe it to be an invaluable thing

upon which to spend focused time. 

doing whatever small things one might
perhaps do as a man toward such an
end, the work, placing myself in not-
so-comfortable yet notably imaginary constructs, 

anything to get a better understanding of
those who are different from who i am, 

both inherently, physically, whether by 

birth or upbringing,
in the decidedly much more
difficult world it is to find
oneself, as far as can be
imagined, without the
luxury of being able to
cloak oneself within the
comforting blanket or fog
of being male or female or 

whatever cloak you are inhabiting

or go about inhabiting, and all that

might entail, it is good stuff to try,

to consider, to think on in earnest. so, 

anyway, it’s too bad i didn’t find
myself entering that lobby, marching
into the feminine annex,
but i do spend time wondering
what that experience might have been,
should i have taken such a
bold and perhaps even
unwelcome move. do
i seem at all threatening
to you? i have my few
requisite radical notions,
which come and go now
and again. and i try to
remain as hopeful and as
open-minded as possible,
with a bent toward being
more patient with those
who are dissimilar to me,
which i assume would cover 

a lot of population, so the possibilities are
endless regarding how one might attempt
to understand even a small portion of 

difference, especially a difference between

me and those with any disadvantage, that pulls

folks anywhere closer to the margins than,

say, i am.  each time i try, which is not
even enough of a regular occurrence, no

matter how often i do, it also becomes obvious
that i’ll never really understand, and it is,

in the end, while good to spend time in such
contemplation, also arrogant, and even
sometimes inappropriate to even think i
have begun to get at it, these differences.
this is just one man’s way of looking
at such things so as to attempt to
know, to engage, and to empathize.
and as long as i keep doing it, surely
i’ll become in some small way better for it.
i might even be a small voice toward change 

for those who do not have it so easy as me. 

at any rate, even if it’s an untrusted and elitist

notion, i do think the more understanding
we all have the more equanimity will exist.
my voice is small and mostly inconsequential
in the grand scheme. but that won’t
stop me from trying. 

mmmmxlviii

Private Giggles

thank god he’s not
a sergeant! or that’s
the joke that i tell

you while i’m over
here uncontrollably
snickering about the

stand-up comedian
that’s currently doing
a downright hilarious

bit inside
of my
head.