mmmmdccix

Often Talks with Strangers

     ...but/leave me beside myself
        like a kid next to a lamppost.
                       —John Ashbery

What are you insinuating?
he sniveled. Whatever it is
[full on sobs now] it’s true

it’s true it’s truuuuuue! Poor
Henry, always wearing that
wounded heart on his seer

sucker jacket’s sleeve. Brett 

was always pushing his buttons, 

of which this afternoon’s

brouhaha was the template
example, but Brett also knew
that after such a push (half

off a cliff, as it were) it was
always best to give Henry his
space, and this he also did

well. In fact, he’d supervise
it into a team effort, dispersing
whatever drama-loving crowd

had gathered for the latest epi
sode of As the Office Queen’s
World Turns before Henry’s

snotty sobs broke into more
of a set of hiccup sounds inter
spersed with quick and deep 

inhalations and phlegmy exhal

ations.  Without even so much 

as a there, there. It was one of

the innumerable reasons Henry
adored Brett. The sobbing man 

uncurled himself from the chair 

at the end of the table and

went about dipping his
fingers into jars too high

on the shelves for him to
fully be able to reach safely.
Something was bound to

break. Or else he’d lose his
footing and fall to the floor,
breaking his hip or giving

himself a concussion or
both. But—not this time.
He let out a staccato’d

yelp surely audible to
any dogs or mice in a
three-block radius, and

after a slight pause (for
effect, even though he
was the only human in

the break-room), with
not the slightest sign
that he was in such a

a sobby state only a
couple of minutes
previous, “Found one!”

And with cookie in
hand, he marched
himself back out 

worked his way through

the sea of cubicles to
his desk, put on his

headset, and with 

all of the vocal
authority of an

army general or
a head of state,
let out a Dallas

and Hines Cust
omer Service,
Hal speaking. 

How might I make
your day better
this afternoon?

Often Talks to Himself

mmmmdccviii

Shaving or Stalling?

I’ve been telling everyone
(which is hardly anyone)
that I’m shaving this beard.

I’ll say or type something
like “last day with my
face hair.” Am I looking

for comments? “No,
please don’t!” Like,
right. The closest I get

is my boyfriend saying
“I don’t believe you.”
Because he knows me.

I don’t procrastinate.
I stall. Either in some
sort of limbo awaiting

particular things to
happen (the expected—
or unexpected—influx

of cash, finishing an
episode of a television
show, writing this poem,

recording myself reading
this poem, posting this
poem, posting the

recording of me reading
this poem, etc.) – there
is always a plan – it is

not that I’m unaware, not

that I am doing nothing.
My next to do list will be

the most efficient. I’ll

make everything happen,
there’ll be no stalling.

Anyway, it’s been at
least two weeks, or
probably twice that,

I’ve been threatening
this all salt no pepper
beard will be gone by

the end of today. So
I’m not going to say
that anymore. Either

I’ll wake up tomorrow
without it. Or I wake
up with it. No drama.

No guilt (For a beard?
It’s metaphorical guilt
for all that I put off.

What of it?).
And that’s that.

mmmmdccvii

Jonathan

Watching the Jons
Lovett, Stewart and
Favreau this morning—
it’s Stewart’s podcast—

I’m suddenly reminded
of the fact that my aunt,
when she was feeling
particularly cocky or,

I suppose, wanted to
condescend (for she
obviously thought this
act did such), would

call me Jonathan.
She’s hold a grimace
on her face as she
drawled the entire

name *(Jaahhn a 

thuuun!) with a 

particularly loud 

and whiny nasal 

tone. She’s my 

mother’s younger 

sister, but I just knew

that when she called

me that—just like when

my father called me 

Terrapin (at first, before 

I began elementary

school, before Sanford
& Son was even a show)
and later, Lamont or, just
as often, Meathead—that

when she called me
Jonathan she was
leveraging her control
over her smarty-pants

nephew. It’s not really
a negative memory for me.
There is nostalgia. But it 

was clearly mean-spirited.

mmmmdccvi

Dead Ones in My Bins

transferred from one most
humble home to an airier
cheerier and therefore much
happier one. i suppose a

summary—“in conglomerate”
—will have to wait, given that
I’ve been here only three weeks
(vs. over 6 years), but as I scrub 

each bin, wash every item of clothing, 

all the linens and wash each dish and
utensil and pot and pan and step
back to decide from what seems

unlimited choices where each item is
to reside, I’m feeling abundantly alive.

mmmmdccv

Brine Your Beans

Slowly settling into my new place
and despite the stumbling blocks
that have made the process such
a long one, and aside from a more

specific loneliness that I feel (best
I can figure this is especially due to
the fact that I’m now living some
place I’d not be embarrassed to

have people over), I’ve mostly
found ways to eradicate my
impatience and have remained
giddy ever since I began sleeping

here. Today, I was momentarily
bummed for just missing “Optical
Day” where one gets a free pair
of prescription glasses just for

showing up—and I did show up
two hours before the event’s
published end-time only to be
told that they had maxed out on

free glasses for the day. They
gave me next month’s flyer. So,
another month using these that
give me limited vision thanks to

the superglue stuck to the rims
of the lenses that got there when
I installed a guard that could wrap
around my head so that I don’t lose

them (because that happens). So
I ran to my next meeting, dropped
by my old apartment building to
thank the folks who helped me get

into this new one, got home, put
on a load of laundry (washers/dryers
are in the building!) and put on some
lunch, rice with beans that I’d let

brine overnight. I installed the
new power cord on the printer
that I lost during the move and
had ordered from Amazon while

I still had a few dollars left be
tween my unemployment checks.
And the new hotspot device finally
arrived from AT&T, and I’m about

to unpack that to make sure this
one works (the last one they sent
didn’t, and the two subsequent
ones they “sent,” well, one went

to an incorrect address and the
other was promised but never
sent, so it’s better not to have
any big expectations regarding

this one). I need to run down
in sixteen minutes to remove
the clean clothes from the dryer.
But before that, it looks like it’s

time to have my lunch, as every
thing looks ready and smells
quite delicious. Or it could just be
that I am hungry.     And home.

mmmmdcciv

Elephants on a Whim

There are no secrets in the room, so I
go outside. I’m Hercule Poirot or Mrs. 

Marple looking for clues. Stick out my 

tongue for a sun lozenge. Sit on a bench 

and doodle in the margins of my—well, 

it’s where i write, it’s leather-bound and 

has emblazoned in gold, all lower caps on
the front, thoughts—until the lozenge has

fully dissolved. It’s a lovely day, and I’d
love to keep it that way. I step into the
bee-chat line hoping for clues, for a bit of
engagement, it’s almost time for lunch.

I’m good with lunch, I like lunch. But do
I have the cash on hand for any? Rather
than dig around to find out, I step into a
bookstore. This will keep me busy for an

hour or two, I’m thinking. I do wonder
what’s happening at home, but I live
alone. As I step out of the bookstore,
I stop to adjust to the sun, and to get

acquainted with the breeze. I haven’t
solved any mysteries thus far. There
hasn’t been anything the least bit myst

erious. I think about the very important 

phone call I took last night. But what 

was important about it? Something about
elephants....    Idiosyncrasies sway like
chaises longues in the afternoon breeze.

mmmmdcciii

No Final Act

It’s not a block, it’s
more a haze. So
the question is what
to do to clear it. This

morning that means
final episodes for
Adolescence and
Andor, the second

season. It’s spring.
See what I did there?
Summer soon. My
birthday. I’m well past

50. Have I told you how
my life has been improving?

mmmmdccii

Not the Final Act

My eyes are all gone. I think it is
age. Or diabetes. Five years ago
I could scrutinize anything. Visually.

I woke up this morning with an ache.
It was a general ache. Generalized.
I couldn’t tell where it began or stopped.

I know I’m not dead yet. There are times
when I feel quite alive. But then there
are days when I want to cling to a bit of

the zest that still seems to bubble up on
occasion. Maybe it was always this way.
As a child I would get headaches much

more frequently than I do now. I search
for a sense of humor and realize that is
almost the same as a search for a

companion. I’m not that old. People
who take on the character of a
curmudgeon, no matter what their

age, seem to serve a purpose. But is
this my default? The simplicity of
these thoughts are tedious with a tinge

of cringe. But mostly these meanderings
are sad. I no longer live in a coffin-
sized hotbox. Just as I am no longer a

hotshot. Haven’t we all witnessed
those of a certain age become rising
stars, be up and coming. Late bloomers.

But that sounds like so much work to me.
I could sit in bed and rock back and forth
until I feel awake. Perhaps there is a salve

for this, a pill that might take me right
out of it. Do I rather want to dwell upon
the tick of the clock, the tedium of age?

To identify every ache and the collapse
of time that supposedly makes them so
prevalent? This character grows tiresome.

No more of this. It seems that I have rocked
myself awake. Now I’ll attempt to continue 

this day from the perspective of my youth.

Fingers Crossed

mmmmdcci

Before science fiction
there was us. We were a
stubborn, impatient crowd.

mmmmdcc

The Audience

I cry out
into my
new room.

Nobody
answers.
But I mean

it’s just me
here, so why
would they?

I was just
reading a
creepy-

crawly
extension
of my vocabulary;

a few lines that
make up what
most might call

a poem. What?
Do I think I’m
a poet? I have

written some
thing and I
look it over.

Then I
wonder,
could this

be my voice?
Confused, or
maybe con

founded, I
read the
thing

aloud.
Invisible,
I flood the

airwaves
with my
words,

both
written
and spoken.

This is my
reaction to 

what I do.

mmmmdcxcix

Up Our Ancestors’ Ashes

I’m not sure about this experiment
as it seems impossible to land on
your point. Here I am, going about
my daily routine, as if there is one,

the carousel clicks, and a new image
appears on the off-white wall in front
of me. What might this scene be?
And who are the characters that

inhabit it? The projection of the
negative image is in black and white,
so it is likely one of my grandmother’s,
handed down to me several years back.

I stare into the lit rectangular patch on
my wall, trying to ascertain any of what
might be transpiring, scrutinizing the
hues for a hint at a particular decade,

screwing my focus in on each of the
several faces, one by one, trying to
see in each any significant character
istic and, as objectively as possible,

trying to catch a glimmer of similarity or
familiarity until I am left craving any con
nection I might have with the faraway
place that’s lit before me, or either face.

mmmmdcxcviii

The Cunning Lingoes of Youth

I have such important things
going on that I want to tell you,
but I can’t stop thinking about
the idea of being made fun of
for doing something rude and
being obviously unaware of it.
Of what I was doing that was
rude. This is a hypothetical,
actually, that is based on a

voluminous list of redundant

and grim incidents. I realize it 

could happen anywhere at any

time and I’d be none the wiser.

Perhaps this is normal, happens

to all of us, but I worry about

performing acts of unintentional

rudeness or being caught totally 

unaware that what just came out 

of my mouth or off of my page is

derogatory or embarrassingly 

inaccurate.  Or getting caught 

using outdated language. Or reacting 

inappropriately just because I have

completely misunderstood some new

lippity smack. When I know this has

just occurred, I will accept my mistake, 

promptly apologize for doing whatever 

it was that I did.  Is everyone just 

making fun of me because I’m older?

And all this time I’d been waiting
my turn so that I could go around
preaching at all the younger folks
about how things were in my day

and how never to sass, etc.  When 

I’d have the upper hand in such 

matters. But of course there’s
always been generation gap lingo.
Elders would tut-tut or act mortally
offended when whippersnappers
sling out their newfangled catch-
phrases. The upstarts never seem
bothered by this.  These days
the new lingo of the lithest of our

populous seem complex, twisting

traditional definitions of words or
phrases in ways meant specifically 

to insult anyone over a certain age. 

Was it always this way? Where the
intent lies so specifically in confusing, 

confounding and generally screwing 

with all of the rest of us? Perhaps.

But I’ve not been here before. And 

am left to wonder if I’ll ever have 

the advantage I spent a lifetime 

awaiting. And I am all but certain

that the answer is that I will not.

mmmmdcxcvii

The Business of Pleasure

I remember getting dressed all spiffily
just to get undressed. Those were the days
of sex. The delight of a mustache over a

cool drink of jalapeños. Juice me this, juice
me that, I’ve no requests except that you
come back with some hair product. The

usual, please. Don’t you hate dreams that
are a little too aligned with reality? I say this
aloud, or would if I were awake, because I

like using my voice. When it can be heard.
I keep trying to press the issue of us pressing
the flesh, but we’re both out of rocket fuel.

Which sucks bigtime, I have to say. But I’ve
picked up all of the maps and all of the forms
and am a professional at making travel arrange

ments. Or I used to be. No, I am. I love being
new places but hate traveling. That’s not true.
I love seeing you but am scared air traffic and

(today) of air traffic control and flippant and
especially mean government officials. Heads
of state with no imagination, no wiggle-room.

I flew first class once. My one and only
business flight. I mean I’ve made hundreds
if not thousands of arrangements for businessmen

but only one for me. That was business. From
Boston to Boca Raton. There were pelicans.
Everything was pink. And the ocean was so warm

I’d surreptitiously excuse myself to it as often as
possible without giving the impression that I wasn’t
on the ball with regard to the official business

of the whole thing. That was my one trip to Florida,
ever, and I’ve trekked through most of the states
coast-to-coast several times. I plan never to go again,

and very much prefer never mixing business with
pleasure, even though the boundaries of both have
grown quite porous over the years. And I swear

that as I get older there’s more surface area in
the overlap of one over the other.

mmmmdcxcvi

Fiction’s Incentive

I can be a bit dramatic sometimes. When I pause
over this (sure, it’s a dramatic pause), I begin to
know that it isn’t just an art that came from discipline
and apprenticeship, but it also comes quite naturally

(both of my parents were pretty seductive—if not
subtle—spotlight magnets). However, if you were
acquainted with my folks, you’d likely feel that I was
putting you on. This isn’t a ruse, though. It is not

hyperbolic. And, sure, even I’d have been surprised
not even so long ago at my telling you this in earnest
today. Acting is an art, as they say; it’s the art of
putting on a face. Of lying. The art of being not

who you, from the most reliable perspectives, really
are. Utilizing deceit to reveal myself is truly what I do.

mmmmdcxcv

The Delight of a Mustache Over a Drink of Cool Water

Love-scratches, drugged-out rants
and other deranged scribbles that
had been scraped into the sidewalks
next to apartment buildings, the so-

called poetry that drips from the bricks
of alleyways, these were all as ephemeral
as the missing or wanted or advertised
lesson sheafs stapled to telephone and

electric poles and to trees throughout
each neighborhood. These were city
segments once noted with amusement
and pride by the city’s inhabitants, as

well as the people who crowded into
these denizens’ personal living spaces
during each peak season. As the larger
buildings that once held these countless

citizens along with their friends or families
or newfound flings from faraway places
melted into liquid metal during this
great erasure, the rivers of lava that

formed momentarily held the spirits
of those who’d lived within. These
were quickly let go, disappeared into
the vapor with the loudest hisses and

moans ever to have been heard, would
they have been. No ears here, however.
The screams belonging to the beings that
had such instruments were long gone,

skin and flesh being the most ephemeral
of all of the ephemera. So, in a soulless
manner, the scalding swamp held no
reticence with regard to its demise,

was as wild and full of freedom as
anything had ever been as it flew
hurly-burly into space, vaporizing
in all directions until all was nothing.

mmmmdcxciv

Just a Smile to Enjoy

     get up, get out, get busy
     engage, revel in the ephemera
     the beauty that is everywhere,
     that won’t be here tomorrow                 

             —the author does not lie

Our faces, dripping from the bricks
of alleyways, were face down,
their surfaces hidden as much as
they could be with waxen hands.

Nothing lasts. Nothing ever did.
Not in this city. The concrete blown
roadside and into the tall, craven
structures through chutes by the

hard-hatted battalions were the most
vulnerable. It’s not that our armed
service crew were particularly sloppy.
Just that, when viewed from great

distances, things that could be discerned
through the magnification systems from
the perimeters of galaxies were always
the ones mostly likely to be targeted.

When such things would burst into
miniature tornadoes dense with
shrapnel and molecular concrete,
the living beings would dance as if

to impress greater powers, divinities,
gods that did not exist, believing their
hotshot means of showcasing their
personalized look at me’s might

eliminate the imminent danger,
would postpone their ultimate and
immediate demise.

mmmmdcxciii

Nothing Is the Right Way

                                         Some are afraid
     that they will fly away.
                                                                     —John Ashbery

When one relishes the marks
made by doe-eyed vandals,
one is participating in vandalism.

Those of us who know that the
Ark of the Covenant was destroyed
in outer space already live in outer

space. The peaceniks turned to
violence at the crowded airport.
The tabloids had named all of the

celebrities who were extraterrestrial;
there were photographs on the covers
of each of them, lined up like disaster

relief stations at cash registers in stores
where otherwise the shelves were empty.
It was the year that grocery stores every

where were emptied with grace, made
barren by the already soulless who’d
pinched off inner toes learning how to

dance on point. The hard way. The lazy
generations were long gone. We were
all that were left on this poisoned planet.

While this was our primary inheritance,
we knew we deserved it as we shoved
our ways to the best spots in the airport

free of all units of transportation just to
glimpse our most beloved celebrity heroes.

mmmmdcxcii

The Urgent Violence That Is Honesty
Calls Me Out of a Long Nap,

like a cat smashed between a row of books
and the wall on the bookshelf you lost when
evicted some eight years ago. A cat you
thought you knew. A cat who knew you as

food. Oh, well. Friendship doesn’t matter.
What matters is love, right? And your
salary. And the economy. What else matters?
I had an interview today. Sure, okay, it was a,

what do they call them, a phone screen? It
was supposed to be just a five minute call,
but it turned out to last at least 20 minutes.
Or at least that’s my estimation. I’ve been

walking things over from the old apartment
to this new one for days now. There was a
fire at the old place when I rented the SUV
to drive the brunt of the stuff I’ve accumulated

over seven and a half years from there to here,
the awkward stuff. It’s a short walk. It’s been
kind of nice, actually. But am I ever ready to
have everything under this new and improved

roof. Nevertheless, I’ve been taking it in stride,
on the phone with Zipcar about the $70 they
overcharged me, AT&T about the $100 they
should never have charged me (that doesn’t

count the $140 that the app, if I choose to
open it, shows that I also owe. They’re
sending me a new hotspot. The last one
was sent erroneously. It was supposed to

save me $10 each month. I’ve been on the
phone with Zipcar 3 times, considerably less
hours than those which I’ve been on with
AT&T. But still no resolution there, either.

Customer service! Am I right? Sigh.
Oh, and my television was stolen. So
I’ve been watching my streaming services
on a laptop that’s on its last legs. Cue

the punch line about legless laptops.

mmmmdcxci

A Lack of Consumer Confidence

My truth is a shambles. But I get at it.
There are, of course, ways in which I
might divert my mind away from a truth
so that I convince myself, at least

momentarily, that the aspect I’m avoiding
isn’t me. To believe that I would never.
I’ve been thinking about this recently,
dealing with customer service at various

companies to which some of the tiny 

amount of income that comes my way

then goes. I’ll be promised a reduction in 

fees, a deletion of a charge, or a way to save 

a buck or two each month by doing this or 

that.  I rarely give in to the sales pitch, and 

when I do, I get bombarded with why I 

rarely give in. An extra charge shows up. 

The ten dollars I was expecting to save per 

month turns out to be an extra twenty that 

appears on each monthly invoice. Or like over 

the weekend, when thanks to a fire that 

flooded out my old apartment building and 

shut down the elevators for a couple of days,

I asked if I could switch the reservations date

for the Zipcar with which I’d planned to move 

my most important items from the old place to 

the new one without getting charged for two 

trips. I had tried to log in to change it before 

the three hours previous to pick-up deadline

but I was having issues with the laptop
internet connection and could not find
a way to switch it before that deadline
arrived. So, I quickly called customer

service, asked if it would be possible to
just switch the date and time of my service
without an additional charge, and I was told
that would be no problem. You can imagine

how the rest of the story goes. Two days later,
after numerous such unexpected expenses
completely undo my budget, I see two $65 

dollar charges on my account. Which is one 

too many, per the man’s promise on the phone.
So I call Zipcar, and am told that the person
with whom I spoke did not promise me what
he actually did. And even if he did, he was

a subordinate that could not have even made
such a promise to me so it’d not count? But he 

did. Thus seems to be the nature of dealing 

with any and all of the entities to which I

pay regular fees. Often, I’m finally able to
have a promised credit or reduction in fees
met, but this almost always involves spending
hours on the phone or in town at some local

spot for whatever service from whom I’m
simply trying to get what was promised.
Fun and games. Such is life. Etc. And I
think of times when money more peacefully

and easily flowed through my hands. To dwell
on such things, even to write these few lines,
can have me reliving the experience in such
a way that I feel defeated, unfocused and

unmotivated. But this is just one of so many
things with which we must deal. If one is me.

All I can do is expect such things and
work like hell on ways to make the entire

process more efficient than it is, less of a
drain on my finances, not to mention my
life. Because living is the thing, right?
Living as well as one can, come what may.

mmmmdcxc

(puff, self, cock, guff)

     We are old and dated
     and cannot of our lives make any sense.
                                                     —John Ashbery

I cringed over thirteen years ago. I’m
such a snotty flacon of prescience, which
isn’t science and is definitely not precious.
Or at least I’m neither. But behold, the

allergic reactions. Maybe back then I
thought I was all that. But it had taken
me so very long. By my standards, at
any rate. Not that I have any of those.

Daddy, is it okay to take thirty-five to forty
years to grow up? But I know what he’d say
if he were here to say anything. It’s something
of his I love to repeat, and probably couldn’t

agree more: You were much more mature at
the age of three than you have been ever since.

mmmmdclxxxix

The Glorious Futility of Intellect

Who are we gathered here in this room
but rotund puffs of self-importance lemming
for a tweaked-out spotlight. We steal stuff
from many of our colleagues just to put on

a popularity show. As referenced before, I
like stealing; rearranging a sentence or a
couple of lines of my own from many years
back is a fine example. I’m not who I used

to be. I wonder if there is anyone out there
who’d beg to differ. I doubt it. Not, at least,
until I cross over the Bridge of Lost Souls
into celebrity. That’s bound to happen soon,

right?  I can say that, knowing what soon will
get me. I wonder sometimes if there are any
people who have themselves figured out as well
as I do me. “You do you!” “That voodoo, too!”

mmmmdclxxxviii

The Dots That People Our Lives

      Sheesh....
      I’m outta here.
                          —John Ashbery

I try to be upbeat, think about others.
This can help. I know a lot of things
that sometimes can bring me up out
of a lull or pop my isolation bubble.

Or I used to. The isolation bubble
remains intact most of the time
these days. But a dull lull I can
worm my way out of in a number

of ways (that often work well to
do just that; are tried and true).
But it requires focus and discipline,
two things I used to have a lot more

of, could sustain in ways that feel
foreign or almost impossible now.

mmmmdclxxxvii

Latter Day Moving

     ...the day just wheezes and goes down a funnel
        counterclockwise.
                                         —John Ashbery

It gets old, me wanting to be social,
but not managing. Just as it gets old
wanting a new permanent home of
employment. There have been so

many obstacles. This is the day I
was to move the brunt of my belong
ings into my new home. Yet. Well,
I often go on about the inordinate

lousy luck I’ve had over the past
decade or so. Ten years ago, living
in a lovely home, one in which I’d
resided for, by then, eleven years. It

would go on to be nearly thirteen. By
those years, I was too sick to enjoy it.

mmmmdclxxxvi

What Masterpiece Will You Be in 40 Years?

I’m sorry you lost to Bette Davis, though
I’m surprised you still have the gumption
after all these decades.

Can moving from one place to the next, as
in tiny apartments, be a kind of post-traumatic
stress disorder. Or I suppose cause such?
This was Marvin’s thought.

I don’t much like lethargy. I mean there’s a
time and a place for it. I just haven’t entered
such a space in a while. By which...the right
time and place. Although I do fantasize about
doing so quite a bit lately.

We went to the museum back in 1968. It was
a pleasant experience.

That piece on John Waters. The link I was sent.
Very informative. I remember being so grossed
out by that first movie or two I caught under
happenstance. But then.

For example, his notion of how to build a party,
one that he’s hosting. The way he explained it
was of course a bit antiquated, a bit cringy, as
we’d say, at least this year. Would we use that
word? Maybe a decade or two ago, but probably
not at the moment.

Lip-readers everywhere are put off by the word,
I’m just sure of it. There should be a word for
when someone says a word the speaker’s face
defines it one hundred percent. That’s too easy.

And has it not been proven somewhere that it’s
three or four times harder to wipe distaste off of
one’s fast than it is to do the same to an expression 

of joy, or a simple smile?

mmmmdclxxxv

(using chains to map out a freedom)

     Today, a day that makes very little sense,
     like America,
     in clear disarray
     everything’s getting worse.
                                           —John Ashbery

Could this be the destruction that I have so
forcefully dreamt of all these years? Wishing,
hoping. Sorry, kiddos, but I’ve no kink for the
end of times, do you? I see a few hands. Open
your personal time machines and look at your
day in history for today. Our lives are so
accessible that at any given moment we
can find our trajectory and plot a different
course if we are unsatisfied or keep that
vector’s gradient rising if we’re feeling
good about what we see. Everyone
has goals, and mine conflicts with
yours and yours, I’m sure. So
what then? There was a time
when we could go for a swing
in our sling (I prefer mine
on the rooftop terrace
and not in the dungeon).

The very next day, his doctor terminated
all of his prescriptions for medications meant
to elevate his spirits. Everyone could see that
he was soaring, had broken through. We in the
medical profession are always the last to know,
thought the doc, rubbing the creases on his
forehead and sighing as if literally affected.

Take a pass at this ask
if you will, but if I say hey
clean your goddamned souls
would you know where to begin?

mmmmdclxxxiv

Pop Videos Past and Present

     If one is a cigarette lighter
     that’s lonely, which is lonely.
                                 —John Ashbery

No judgment. I’m sitting in the office
playing Trent on the big teevee trying
to remember that feeling when his
soul-cold lyrics first were piped (and

heavily) into my earholes. It’s one
of those legitimate workdays that
isn’t officially a workday. Nothing
I’ll count on any timesheet. Just the

stuff that has to be done. Slightly
out of tune single piano notes –
the most melancholy that can be
mustered in such a way, as he

twists away in chains hanging from a
beam above, somewhere in the Manson
mansion’s basement. I could goth it out,
cast my mood into the darkness, siding

solidly with the NIN tune. But then, it’s
Lenny Kravitz doing his naked dance,
TK421. It’s a quick turn that jangles
the senses, but I can roll with it. It’s

Saturday, I’m celebrating my newfound
glory and good luck, and I’m ready to
go in whatever direction the world and
its musical magic have me headed.

mmmmdclxxxiii

As young men do, old men never say.

     ...and I’ll tell you it’s not going to get easier,
        only harder.
                                         —John Ashbery

I told you it wasn’t the end of the world.
Your trust is imaginary and affords me
quite the generous stipend. Down is not
South, Up is not North. Trust me, I saw

numerous medical professionals about
my ongoing vertigo throughout the
1990s. We look up and down trying to
find someone of age. Finally, we take

the bus to the station, get out, walk
all the way back home. Then we go
to dinner, some fish place. I had the
steak with pommes frites, you had an

Orange Julius and a side of bacon.

mmmmdclxxxii

You Have Good Follow-Through

     I’m so sorry these are inexcusable.
                                  —John Ashbery

There, I said it, he thought, as he was
transported by this very palatable teevee
show about a disgusting and horrible 

subject. Episode 3, for which they 

must hand out awards.  Men can 

be such tender kissers. Who likes
bruises? Oh. Yeah. Sorry.

mmmmdclxxxi

(our secret state)

Could this be the destruction that I

have always said I wanted?  The

tearing up of my life as if it were

a sheet of paper, tossing those

pieces into the breeze that kicks

up just as this tattered life is strewn.

In terms of death, of reincarnation,

I could find a scientist who’d somehow

be able to calculate the improbability

that any shred from the sheet of

parchment that was once me

could ever find again even one

of the other torn pieces (that

again, cumulatively was once 

me). Anyway, death comes

to us all, supposedly.  

So. Is it too late to say to you, 

to plead with you, to humbly 

beg of you this: 

Please, kindly, might you

avoid ripping me into shreds?

mmmmdclxxx

I am the spirit of a stapler in a castle full of paper doves.

This is less a story about torture than
it is one about productivity. For a few
months, I worked in factories. First
a toy factory. Next came a cardboard

factory. Other conveyor lines came
along afterwards. I had learned
to find in these repetitions as much
comedy as I could muster. I say

muster. And there was often
exhaustion. The comedy, I’d
suggest, required less effort
as time passed. And soon I’d

manifest it, in the manner of
a comedian, I suppose. It was
a distraction, of course. I would
work bits of physical humor,

build jokes into routines and
mold them ever nearer to
perfection. With no real
audience, I could not relay

to you which of these I got
better at over the years, nor
whether or not I got good at
either. On that, you’d be a much

better judge. But I continue to 
put things together at the speed
with which all of the parts come
at me, and package the finished

product up as nicely as I can into
its ready-made box, all the while
doing my stand-up routine, which
has evolved considerably as I’ve

practiced extensively. And I have
learned to do two things at once.
And also, how to forget I’m doing 

one task by distracting myself 

with the other, whichever one I
happen to find the more tedious

at any given moment.

mmmmdclxxix

We’re Here

I’ll be watching a lot of this with my
eyes closed. It does not mean I’m
not excited about what’s happening,
in a good way. Ecstatic about it, even.

We’ve obviously arrived at some new
place. It’s an elevation, relatively lofty,
but is not be taken for granted. I will
find ways to enjoy it, though. In a

celebratory way. And I certainly
encourage you to do the same.
That cannot be forced, of course,
and so as I go about relishing,

cherishing where it is we’ve gotten,
I’ll be a top-notch example of how
best to celebrate, to show just how
it can be done. In doing so, I fully

intend to remain humble, yours.