mmmmcxxv

(my laptop is dead so this poem is for now handwritten. worse than that, by me. apologies!)

mmmmcxxiv

(my laptop is dead so this poem is for now handwritten. worse than that, by me. apologies!)

mmmmcxxiii

Urgent

I’m supposed to be doing.
I should be. The plan was.
Turn on the news. The
weather. Pick outfit. Walk
dog. Take out trash. Empty
the litter box. Water plants.
Make reservation. Get a job.
Here’s what needs to happen.
To do list. To do list says. I’ve
got to go do. Urgently. ASAP.
This should be done immediately.
Remember to. Priority items.
All caps. ALL CAPS. The laundry.
The dishes. The floor. The bills.
Put a stamp on it. Errands. Call
Mom. I need to call. Grocery
list. Social life. The reading on
Sunday night. Scratch it off.
Combine the three lists into
one. Put in calendar. Check
calendar. Respond to. Fix
it. Do it. Put a pin in it.
Research. Look up how
to spell. Definition of.
Finish. Read the rest.
Print the article. Order
in. Focus. Focus on.
Edit. Send. Apologize.
Deadline. Call him at
two this afternoon.
Recurring items.
Don’t forget to.
Brainstorm. Be
social. Socialize.
Request further
instructions.
Details. Info.
Birthday card.
Get creative.
Check blood
sugar. Make
appointment.
Apply. Send
thank you.
Retract. Check
blood pressure.
Write a check.
Take meds. Call
the doctor. Follow
up. Wind it down.
Clear the hurdle.
Obliterate that
obstacle. Get
a life.

mmmmcxxi

Uptick?

Swallow your
pride?  Sure.
But if so, up
chuck your
gullibility.
Dispose of
depression,
anxiety and,
while you’re
at it (and why
not?), disease
and pestilence.
The era of the
voice is not even
a toehold down to
earth, but when the
voice reigns its
swollen toes w/o

ever touching the
earth wholl carve
those dugout
human-sized
cave holes 

way down

into the 

depths

of it?

mmmmcxx

Symphonie Insensée

It doesn’t matter
how much talent
you have. Nor
how long you’ve
worked at it. Nor
how successful an

apprenticeship or

the amount of
legwork you’ve
chalked up doing
whatever it is that
you do. That you
want to do. Well,
whether or not you
want to be doing it
or anything else.
Soberly, I rose
to the occasion,
tipped my hat,
twisted an about-
face, all but tip
toed off the stage
and practically fell
out the door and
into the traffic.
Before that big
truck hit the bus
iness that was me,
did I hear – how
might I even recol
lect? – the sweet
sound of the city
as it whooped its
obligatory cresc
endo into that
swollen and
slightly off-
key yet mes
merizing chord?
Who cares? I
whipped my
drained and
deranged body
of business “out
of harm’s way,”
and skipped
toward the
bedizened
horizon and into
an inevitable
oblivion.

mmmmcxix

Punk

The stuff
I’ve yet to do . . . .

mmmmcxviii

22 (back to broke)


popped into a Cutlass drove up to the Seven Eleven on a

danger somethin about a hillbilly on the skank and a

dancefloor can the music really do it to it popped

into a Cutlass drove up to the wall at the end of the

baby pinnin me to the wall yeah to the Seven

with Depeche Mode on your new duds with a

fuckin banker as the lord jesus christ hisself

let it hit ya can it hit ya doncha even hafta let it mister

and wonder why many as three people can fuck and get it

on even on even on the same waterbed yeah shake

that skinny-ass tie baby nineteen eighty


popped into a Cutlass drove up to the Seven Eleven

on a danger somethin about a missin hillbilly

hisself got the rain on the windshield and party

how can you grab hold of a dyin beat let him

bedragged up the stairs and find him down again down

again aw that smile on his face grippin over the porcelain

in a studio in Little Rock doll why doncha just

lift up the good stuff I’ll make you skinnydip

you gotta dip with me baby you gotta I gotcha

poolside gotcha poolside and the dogs don’t even count


popped into the Seven Eleven on a danger mission

got it whipped with a high five and no bankers

gonna step on into the dumpster for a smoke

shakin it like he’s believin it and then

mouse it on up the hill for a coupla

blooms see to it the pops don’t mess ya don’t

watch it go up into the clouds and on such a shiny

nighttime we got the music real and if I don’t keep

walkin keep walkin in the pourin offa the blacktop

the pool the pool’s gonna get too cold too fuckin


popped into the Seven Eleven and told the man

not to move not to move we gotta hillbilly he don’t

know who’s gonna pray and who’s gonna sing how

do you grab hold grab hold in Little Rock get to

divin down at the supermarket next to the gaybar

next to the Seven Eleven I told you so doncha

drag me up the stairway I don’t have no waterbed

you don’t know me from Christmas I found this

piece a mud in the alley down by the stairwell and

the banker done pinned me to the wall with his

dead fuckin Cutlass in the broke-ass

middle of Little Rock

mmmmcxvii

Vexed

I try to write a poem.
It is a doozy of a downer.
Is this all I can be?  Perhaps
I should do something
else.  Or, and this seems
more important at the
moment, maybe I
should concentrate,
and quite heavily,
on not being such
a doozy of a downer.

mmmmcxvi

The Evil Machine

It is all simplicity drained
into a medium-sized metallic
box. One that you can carry
around all day and never know

it’s even with you, until you look
down, whether you’re holding it,
have it held by a strap over your
shoulder, the box dangling at the

side of your butt, or have it rigged
to sling over both shoulders, like a
backpack. Like the one in which
you once would carry at least a

half a dozen books. You don’t
really know what it does, nor
why you’re compelled to have it
with you every second of your

existence. It wasn’t always like
this. There was a time when you
felt light as air, when you believed
in the myth of freedom. You dreamed

you could soar. All the normal stuff.
But then there was that box. Did you
make it? Was it a gift? Did you find
it somewhere, like in a dumpster, or

some executive’s office? Perhaps
washed ashore, back when the
beach of the deep drain was
the only ominous that you knew.

That you felt. And still, as you
look out over the vast ocean,
and at the setting sun, say. Do
you remember what was prom

inent? What was at the forefront?
When you could go anywhere, be
anything and, most importantly,
when you could escape any time

you wanted. You could just leave.
For a moment. For a few days. Or
to begin again, to start fresh, and
this you did on occasion. It was

rare, but it was an option. Yet look
at you now, so completely unaware,
so devastatingly out of options, with
out even the memory of those days,

of that freedom, of those choices that
were at your disposal. And that you
got to decide. Sometimes a glimpse
of the idea of choice, as if deep within,

as of the ashes of what used to be 

the coal in the furnace of your skull 

is stirred, just enough to whip up an
ember. But then. It’s gone. And

you look around as gooseflesh crawls
across your skin. Thinking maybe
someone.... But there’s no one.
Nothing. Except the box,

which you clamp tighter between
your arms, hoist its harness up
closer to your neck, or tug at
the straps across your chest,

bringing what’s behind you closer,
tighter, feeling it flush, a square
to your back, that gives you, so
clueless, the idea that you are

safe, that you are secure, that this
world is yours.  And with these thoughts,
the ember darkens, and you blindly find
your comfort, your security, your peace.

mmmmcxv

The Difference Between
Input and Output

     ...we’re here, we do stuff,
        and then we’re gone.
              —Robert Downey, Jr.

It turns out to be about death
but “not in a morose way,” he
says shortly after his dad passes.
They’d been collaborating on a
documentary together, featuring
his dad, named after him: Sr.

when I watch movies or teevee
shows, streamers, as these seem
to be called collectively at this 

moment, I come away from that
experience revivified. I somehow 

manage to maintain all of the 

big networks (or whatever we call 

them anymore), pay the monthly

fees, even as they keep going up 

and up.  They now make up, by

far, most of the tiny monthly bud
get that I have.  Sometimes I fail

to remember to watch them, tend 

not to pick up the console to turn 

on my gargantuan teevee. When I
do, I most often do it when I am

feeling down, which, these days, 

is too often. I’ve always had to 

deal with depression, ever since 

I can remember, and this particular 

fix has always been a go to. Others 

come and go – like going to the 

cinema or taking a walk through 

the streets of the city in which 

I live and love – but these days it’s 

watching a series, one of several 

I happen to be in the middle at of

at any given moment (unlike in the 

past, I now actually finish them!) or, 

on a rare occasion I watch an entire 

movie, something I used to do with 

such regularity that I’d often see
five or six a week. Now, it’s almost 

never. But I saw two today. Both of 

which I loved. One, an adaptation 

of the first half of a book I read 

several times as a too precocious 

child (Dune) and Sr. And I even

caught a couple of episodes of
a couple of the series in which

I’m currently in the middle or 

near the end. The end. Death 

sat vehemently at the fore
front of both of these films.
But I don’t feel worse than 

when I first tuned in to each? 

Resoundingly, I feel much

better. I believe I need to

remind myself to do this 

more often. The only other 

thing I can think of as an

almost sure-fire remedy
for a bout with these blues

is writing, which I’m doing 

this very moment. When I

write these pieces, I will 

invariably make a big 

production out of whether 

or not anyone is out there.

Whether you exist. I have

ego. I want to be part of a 

conversation. Of course I do. 

And, if you do, indeed, exist,

my gratitude, really. But even 

if this just goes out into vapor,

and I’m its only audience, what 

would be the problem with that? 

But if you are there, thank you, 

people of television and film. I 

really do mean that. What life 

I get from the tenacious creativity

of others. Thank you for that, too.

mmmmcxiv

Jim & I Kick It

Dualities are all the rage
in here where I supposedly
belong.  Do I seal my lips
with super glue or vent via

screams until my voice col
lapses?  I have so much to
tell you that I don’t want to.
I have so much I want to tell

you that I dare not.  This con
flict has never been a problem
for me – it’s stability.  But do I
let that be my excuse?  I talk

the ears off anyone who lets me.
Mostly they’re paid professionals
or interviewers.  But what if some
one knew me enough to really want

to listen, to hear my story, my num
erous stories, the ones I only hint at,
if at all, but never tell completely.  Am
I just too lazy?  The world is so unfair

and yet I’ve been so blessed.  If it were
going to be so unfair to me, oh how in
retrospect I’d rather it have done so
when I was young.  But maybe that’s

some pretty cheap vanity.  Deal with
it, I demand of myself. But then, how
to get perspective when I’ve no one
here who knows me well enough to

know that this wasn’t my lot, speak
ing of vanity, speaking of an over-
inflated ego.  There’s no we where
I go.  That’s the biggest difference

besides the atrocities that are so
much easier for me to see.  I
have never been one with any
desire for empathy so deep that

it drives.  Whips around these
cliff-laden California curves I
haven’t seen in nearly a decade
now.  I’m not helpless.  But I

am unable to pretend these
shackles did not bind me by
coincidence, were certainly
not mere accident.  Blame a

system or, more appropriately,
its people. No matter, what’ll
it do for me to blame?  So I
play this game, flummoxed

by this lack of inertia, this
movement that seems filmed
for me to watch as it transpires,
and in such slow motion that it

is impossible to tell whether the
gradient is an incline or a decline.
Or a recline.  Idiots who look at
the downtrodden thinking, even

saying aloud, how lazy they have
to be in order to be in such a sit
uation.  Bite your tongue off is
the situation.  Know it before

you burn it.  Maybe it’s worse to
avoid.  Pretend such things, these
people, don’t exist.  Do it before
you eschew it!  Switch places for

a day.  Or bring that thing, that
human being, to work day.  What
a holiday that would be.  A prison’s
primary purpose is to be built with

no means to escape.  Except by
those with keys.  They get to
decide.  What’s the difference
between you and me?  Who’s

got the key?  And who’s pacing
the tiny square of concrete try
ing to remember what it must
have been like to be free?

mmmmcxiii

Astride the Vertical Vector

How much paradox in
one day? I could spell
it all out for you, but
what would it matter?

The top of my game is
the bottom of this barrel.
The rock bed upon which
dead men drown is the up

per edge of the galaxy. But 

I am home. I know my place.
Like the half-rotten meal that
you’ve eaten, it has gone down

into the depths, as low as it
can go, only to rise again.

mmmmcxii

Dress for Success

One trick of course is to always
act like you know precisely
what you’re doing, and that
you know how to reach any goal.

And while that kind of con
fidence is often appealing and
‘gets you places,’ with repeated
and overarching use it creates

an impression of cockiness, which
is definitely not what we’re going
for here.  So you need to finish that
off with delicate moments of humility,

self-deprecation.  Now that’s a mix that
builds a sexy facade of success appeal.

mmmmcxi

Aural Sensation

I hear that if you laugh
at a penguin it will laugh
with you.  Years later

I tried that.  Turns out
I had it on blowhard
authority.  I guess

I was tuned in to the
wrong station.  So, as
usual, the joke’s on me.

mmmmcx

Moral Lobotomy

The oral history of
moral authority is
not a reality play.
It’s called The Yeti
Make Spaghetti in
Their Yurts.  I’ll
have a yoghurt
with that.  Get it?
Oh, the door’s right
there, see it flapping
in the polar wind?  But
I wouldn’t venture out
there if I were you,
what with all of the
spikes.  Which I don’t
worry about too much,
given how hard it is for
one to penetrate this ice.

mmmmcix

I Have It on Moral Authority

that there’s no way this light
causes skin cancer. if you
don’t believe me just
google it. but perhaps
you might should do so
over there in the shade.

mmmmcviii

Our Most Affordable...

fill in the blank because
i’m unbankable.  unless
you count, play-doh, duh!
so off we go to the shark
tank, where i’ve got a
bunch of fresh ideas.
like ponzi schemes
and cracking safes.
once i thought i
was funny.  
was brushing
my teeth.  some
where between my
ears i heard a loud
comment and the
toothpaste fell from
the sink onto the rat-
infested floor.  this
portion of the page
you’re currently
reading of the
book of my
life is brought
to you by crest.
the moral of the
oreo is that i’m not
funny after all.  never
was.  or maybe i was
but now i wasn’t.  who’s
to say?  a whole bunch
of empty space,
that’s boo hoo.

mmmmcvii

Monotony Lobotomy

Humdrum, here. I just
took Monotony to see
Nurse Ratchet.  She
insisted on a lobotomy.

I don’t think she meant
me.  I left Monotony with
her.  She was quite insist
ent, though, and upon the

exchange, enormously
pleased.  I’m not sure what
to do without it.  There’s a
certain peace in repetition.

But the tingle in my head!
And the pep in my step!

mmmmcvi

I Don’t Want to Think About It

I’d rather not talk about it, either.
Just for today, can we say? You
don’t want to, either, and yet I
persist. Down the rabbit hole

I go. Depression is a set of
circumstances that swirl around
in the gut until it builds a sink
hole beneath my feet. I grew

up in tornado alley. Saw only
one, despite hours and hours
of books over head in school
hallways, being cramped into

storm cellars with relatives.
My father was in one. All he
had to hold on to was a flag
pole. He rose like a flag, he

said, a tale I heard dozens of
times, holding on for dear life.
And then it was gone. Sinkholes
are like quicksand, once you sink

you’re stuck until someone pulls
you out. This happens around
the time the nostrils are about
even with the top of the swamp-

damp soil, a mud that, if you even
try to move, you’ll find yourself
deeper and deeper within. People
lose lives. All the time. I don’t

want to talk about it. So far, I’ve
survived. So far, I have relaxed
into it, taking the time to, well,
breathe, relax, contemplate

nothing, sinking further into an
oblivion that always seems so
well-deserved at the time. I
get out. It seems like luck, but

perhaps it’s just what we do,
what we get ourselves into,
perhaps it’s inherent, a way
to survive by almost not

surviving. A day or so later
and I’m thrumming with
energy, excitement, moti
vation. Historically. But

there’s always the notion
that swirls around and
slightly above the gloom
and doom that it won’t

always be this way. This
is only something that I
have thought about re
cently. It’s not the best

lingering thought to have,
as you may well know. To
survive requires discipline
and responsibility. But it

requires more than that.
And sometimes I have less
than I need of the more
than that which is necessary.

Of that, there’s no remedy
sometimes but to wait
things out. Nevertheless,
there’s always things to

be done. To do lists that
keep one away from the
swamp. But the swamp
is inevitable. Fortunately,

I’m thus far always res
cued. Generally by my
own devices. Sometimes
by the generous of heart.

I used to have a generous
heart. Now the ticking of
my ticker feels more like
that of a stopwatch. I’ve

no idea what duration from
which it’s counting. I’m not
counting the ticks. I’m just
counting on being here a while.

mmmmcv

Rosy Noses

Hey, so I woke up late,
having stayed awake late,
or early, almost until the
sun came back up, nothing
unusual there, only did I
get anything accomplished?
Sure, yes, I now have an
interview next week, some
time either Tuesday, Wed
nesday or Thursday.  I have
recorded a couple new months
of poetry for the YouTube side-
channel of this very project.  My 

floors are clean, some laundry
(which I now do in the
sink) is clean, I have
managed to yet stay
inside, in my little
hotbox, rather than
go out and spend any
of the last money I have
this month, so that’s good,
right?  I’m concentrating
on the good stuff, accent
uating it in a perhaps hyper
bolic manner, but whatever
works to keep my mind off
the dead-end bleakness of
it all.  And nothing’s bleak.
My boyfriend is amazing,
even though he’s been
in the opposite hemi
sphere for, what, 100%
of the nearly four years
since we’ve decided we
were a couple (I will
never, ever, ever,
denigrate the notion
of a long-term relationship
as I used to – and nope, I 

refuse to believe this is karma).  So,
these are my diatribes, er, or the
attempts at mild-mannered
catch-ups, or touch-bases,
I set out to do – by the time
we’re at about here, I realize
there’s no turning back, the
sarcasm (if we’re lucky), the
pessimism, the lack of hope
is so overblown despite the
attempt to really break through
and into the many amazing poss
ibilities, the infinite radial paths
upon which I could casually stroll
or even skip my way out of this
spot and into obvious progress
and happy endings.  I look
down and all I see are my
bare legs crossed with a
pillow above and between
the laptop upon which
I’m pecking this ridiculous
ness and below them is
the blanket that acts as a
facade atop my badly bro
ken bed.  It is cooler than
it’s been in quite a while.
There’s that interview
coming up next week.

How can mentioning
and in fact repeating
this fact not resemble
a déjà vu in which we

all know the obvious
conclusion.  But
no, no, no, I’m trying
to tell you that I’m act
ually in good spirits; or
was.  Is the act of sending
you these updates the problem?
They do not help if, by design,
this is the best I can do.  That
much I know, even as I attempt
to be upbeat.  I’ve got chicken
legs in the refrigerator which
I can cook now along with some
rice, and a rice-cooker within which
to cook the rice and a skillet atop a
single electric burner upon which to
fry the chicken.  The room is relatively
clean (I’m not mentioning one fact about
it that I’m just not going to mention, besides
the broken bed, besides the fact that it’s an
SRO, and that I reside in this tiny space in the 

hood within my favorite city and cannot get into 

a new place and therefore cannot see my guy 

in the same vicinity as me until I get a job and 

move into a new place) – and defeat.  Not defeat.
Never defeat.  Defeat is death.  And I’m yet
alive.  Right now, in fact, I feel very alive,
even as I stew over all of the obstacles,
and try to calculate, based on history,
what might come next. I will get 

there. It’s mostly (mostly) silly 

for me to think of time as a
quickly ticking bomb that counts
down to an ever-swiftly nearing
zero.  Like if I had a real kitchen
and were baking something in the
oven.  The ding ding when the timer
hits zero does not mean the end of
life or the apocalypse, but that the
bread is baked, the pizza is done,
your potato is ready, etc., etc.
All good stuff.  Because I am
nothing if not hungry.