some parts don't sum

I can't stomach my
heart no more 
It's always
in my throat,
trying to work

my tongue, 'cause
my gut has a hunch
that I can't ignore,
which my dumb ass can't

know
is wrong,
'til it's done

domestic side

Lois Lane should not have to 
lift a damn finger around the 
house.

Clark should just do 
all the chores, vwoosh, 
eye -blink! DONE. "Fair
division of labor" can't apply
when somebody's got super
speed, so strong so easy! I'm

not saying 
that if superheroes
were real they should be enslaved

as domestic servants.
That would be problematic -
that's how supervillains are made!
And no heroes to fight them! But
everybody's house is

so clean

Bad trade,
yet in a love relationship,
two people at home? Pitch in,
Clark! 

Come on. 

I mean, he probably does
already.
Seems like a decent guy, 
and probably
- I don't know this -

a bit of neat freak?

But we never see him
do clean house. Or...
...maybe that's just realism?
We would never catch him
at that, realistically. Vwoosh
-too 

-fast

-done!
Anyway.
If I had a
super-powered
maid, I'd be like - hey baby 

let's fight crime 

She'd be like - hey baby 

that costs extra 

Ol' '95

'95 was in many ways 
my favorite year. I drove
Into the sunset for a week 
and found California, and 
I lived at one of my best
creative peaks awhile, I 
was an artist. I had a job, 
the Cowboys lost to the
Frisco Niners but rebounded
all through the year on a rocket
shot to their next big ring (in
'96 - terrible year otherwise)
and hoo boy the ladies. Well,
one of them any way - just
my lucky number! My heart 
can't count higher than one. 

Also, to put it delicately, so
many people who later turned
out to be assholes hadn't even
been born yet, or if they had,

their influence
was as-yet limited
by poor to nil language
skills, and a fuzzy wuzzy
grasp of reality, which sadly
it still is. Big '95! A year 

for the books. Not 
my favorite year, no. 
As it stands, that would 
be Big '23 (a practical 
tactical obstacle - you 
can't fucking do anything 
in those other years), but 

in many ways, yes. It had 
high points. 

When the red wine bottles
are broken out (the glass 
tends green, oddly - my 
glass tends clear 'til the 
blood ruby nectar runs 
in) and I see that vintage 
on the label like a punch 
in the mouth from an old 
friend, I say - "1995! Good 
year." And 

people think I know my wines. 
OK, I do, but I prefer to get 
to know theirs. Nosey!  

secret joys of getting to know you

It makes sense you'd
say that. It all fits,
somehow - mind you,
I know you well, now! 
This latest jut prong 
sprung out kabong
without warning or
seeming reason might 
put others in mind
of wan, pasty white
-coated sprinters with
butterfly nets
after you
- but to me?

It all slides in
snick-click fit! Legit

coherent
in a sense,

considering
the source, as 

one does, as 
one must

with you,
true,
I never could've
predicted THAT! 

Yet that very
unpredictability 
forms a jazz pattern
long since proven
unexpectable.
No,

it makes sense 

somehow.
Context! Is
key, as some
say - and in
you they find 
proof incarnate! A living 
human being whose no doing 
nor saying makes sense

without 
the context! Of what?
No: who. You,
specifically. 

It only makes sense 
when I look twice, OH. 

YOU. 

Yeah.
Well, I might have known!
Ha, I don't need
to go thumping
stone walls, feeling
up mortared joins
in the dark, longing
for the secret catch
that springs, cracking
open a concealed door
to a mystery passage when 

I've got a key like that!

Who needs doors?
Or ways of understanding 
furthering, leading on and in?
The more I've known you, the more
I've known there is no understanding
but experience, with you. Sometimes 

it can't be explained,

it just makes sense.  

And you do. 

inducement fails

"Nothing could induce
me to do that," she coolly
cooed.

"Nothing could induce
me to do that," she purred,
coolly like a cat whose
sharpness of paw proves
a stroke upon fur goes all
wrong-way despite such
seeming-soft, inviting
fluff and gloss. 

"Nothing could seduce me
to do that," she rasped
in a harsh, grating
falsetto baritone
that rang like
hollow iron,
her eyes
flashing deadly-dully,
her expression blank and
stiff as an unidentified corpse.

Yet...
something...
...bewitching in her body
language told him yeah, you
know what? Go with the literal
level, here. Meant just
AS-IS,
never-
you
-mind

wild from the cold

It got so damn cold 
I had to go wild 
just to warm up 
from the fire inside 
like a longlost child, 
reunited with you
at a tender age,

But all ages are.
So true, but - false!
This kid's not yours!
The false-accused parents
go wild with rage
as pure as bliss,
just like ignorance
is...

That's how it goes
in this tender age:

We go wild, wild 
from the cold, I know! 

I know! 

We go wild, wild 
from the cold, so cold 
I know! 

I know 

It's so cold - so cold! 
Out there in this world, 
it's like nobody cares. 
They don't even dress warm.
Gone cold, cold, cold to the core,
core, core!

Chattering shivering, frozen
and pure. Well, what would it
take? To warm us up? Some big
fond kind hot slobbery kiss? 

That's what it is, when rage 
pure as bliss has a tender 
age trembling wild like this:

We go wild, wild 
from the cold, I know! 

I know! 

We go wild, wild 
from the cold, so cold 
I know! 

I know 

Wild, I know 
from the cold 

so cold

guitar solo

so cold, 
so cold 

(solo out)

more fake movie capsules

An unorthodox cop left stranded in a crime
scene time loop finds unexpected romance
with the to-die-and-come-back-for girl
of her dreams. Who is doing this? The answer
will surprise and disgust someone you know. 

Two teen hijinkers get in over their heads
when they decide to hijink a very commercial
airliner in this unconventional, uplifting and
grimly twisted amorality lesson. Directed by 
the swan in the pond you see in the opening 
credits montage. 

In a surprise multiversal twist ending, we find 
out nobody and everybody was what we thought 
they were - making us all want to sit back down 
and watch again from the beginning to see if it
even fits as a grizzled, lone wolf school teacher
hits it off with a reverse pedophile - a schoolchild
who preys on unsuspecting grownups for sick thrills!
Only one teacher can possibly teach this kid the only
lesson any kid with a habit like that needs to learn:
knock it off. But will they? 

In this spontaneously classic children's tale, 
a bear, a rowboat and the Pope are out in the 
desert. The rowboat says to the Pope, holy 
father, you're privy to the cosmic mysteries 
of the universe. What causes gravity? The 
Pope says mass. 

proof of unicorns

I kept
this deep, sharp 
hole in chest
to show 
you.

There's
a horse out there
to break your heart
straight sternum through
in one insistent headbutt
true.

You do
believe. But
no one sees 
the hole. Just 
keep your shirt 
on, 
you

Some Act

The ventriloquist said please 
read my lips as she spoke 
from her butt and the doll 
just twitched lifting full 
glass of water to her doll
-like mouth, cut wooden 
and deep, drained the whole 
thing south but it sopped 
and streamed from her 
innards all wet. The 
ventriloquist 
said 

that's 

all you get. 

beloveds bite

I kind of wish more things died 
when they bit you. Or stung you, 
but - it's kind of the suckers that 
bug me more than the suicidal 
honey-loving hive-minded self
-defense artists. 

Not people, either. I don't wish 
people would die when they bit 
you. That would be weird. It 

would be even weirder if they
knew that would happen. I'd
feel so bad, too! What did I do

to deserve your hatred or wrath
so hard that you're dying to
bite me!? PLEASE DON'T!

I get no ego goose from meaning 
so bad much to people that they'd 
do

that. 

I'd feel I'd have to go to the funeral. 
Awkward. 

What if they ask me to do the eulogy!
I'd have to get up there, wreathed in 
dark garlands, a fat votive candle 
gripped in each big hand and say 

"Hey, I didn't even know the guy! 
He bit me!" Mournful pause. "I think 
I can speak for a lot of us here today 
when I say Gwendopher touched us 
all in some way. Is that really his 
fucking name? It's he, right? He 
bit like a she, but we'd already 
clarified pronouns, so, when I 
look out at a crowd of mourners 
like this" - meaningful look -

"I feel safe saying Gwendo touched 
us all. But he only bit me!" 

Then, all choked up as if to one-up 
all these lesser-touched beloveds and
bereaveds of the dear or oh, dear departed, 
like getting bit is what makes us special
to each other, I'd step down and in grave
and stentorian stride, march right out
of the whole, somber room. Out

to the grave, 

and start digging.
I barely knew the guy, 

but this looks not deep enough
to me. How cringe-wince worthy
would that
be

Imagine

What is wrong with people? Why do they 
ask the guy who knew the dead guy latest
and least to speak? Hoping to hit the first
-impressions jackpot from a dewy-eyed
naïve wonderdolt who everybody says
sees too much good in people? Sorry! 

My first impression was pretty much teeth. 

Don't want to hear my bold, unsauced,
unvarnished take on people? Ask
someone else to do the eulogies! 

Or if you ask me and hate how
I get a bad job done right, well
and to-the-point? 

Bite me.   

efficiently expert

I've always been organized -
highly, arbitrarily. For instance:
"A place for everything, and
everything in its place." Yes.

This calls to me, and I factor
in time. The moment. Case-
by-case, and catch-as-catch
can! I find what's in-hand
and make placement with
purpose: to create the most
aesthetically-pleasing mix
and area,
given only existing objects
(without changing their positions!)
and spatial relations.
That's

wherever
it goes.

It varies wildly in time,
in successive placements
and subtractions, in mindful
thoughtlessness - an effect that's

almost subtly,
almost ineffably
organized - efficiently!
Yet effortless. A sort of mobile
sculptural abstraction ethos
is seen overall, developing
in forced, pointed ways
through time - if only
we could take it all in.

Yet in any individual
snapshot of frozen
moment, still life
with everything,
depicted in surreal,
unchosen strokes - "automatic
organizing" - what we see

is not there.

Like a Buddhist,
we find attachment
to what we can't find
is the source of a suffering,
and reject it. Bravely, as
we might be! Reject it
not as dissatisfactory,
though it sure is, nor
as undesired, but simply

as not there.
Along with self, even being
itself! Life, the universe and
everything else - we find in
sublime acceptance a peace
that becalms our inner armada
of tub-boats, and gets them all
abob and adrift in one current.

We find in a continual seeking,
rummaging glance askance
that looks all,
sees not,

and says

perfect.

Perhaps that
was uh more
than you wanted
to ask, but

there's really no simpler
answer truly, to how my

kitchen

is

like this.
It simply

is

and so
becomes
so. It's not hard!
It just takes a certain
je ne sais panache. It takes
a step-back detach - get
personal bias out of frame!
It takes a wide-open third eye,

looking down expertly
upon the idea,
ideal,
and illusion
of organization,
finding a maximized
efficiency in dismissal.
Then

- and I want to be real
clear: only then -

can we somehow become one

with everything

in my kitchen.

You have to look.
Did you try
within you?
OK, okay -

maybe later

system check

I got a hole in my head.
In fact, I've got seven! 
My heart's got holes 
I can't count, but it's 
spreading only one 
of those holes I think 
goes to heaven. The 
rest pump ichor and 
gore that I leaven with 
oxygen! Plus whatever 
I eat! Stomach and lungs 
make the soup complete 
with all essential vitamins 
and minerals you could
need, 
so dig in
you little cutup. 
I've been dying to bleed.  

star deep, star dark

I think instead of asshole, 
if it could casually catch 
on, perhaps we could call 

each other "buttstar" 

in those moments. "WATCH 
IT, BUTTSTAR!" It 
has a certain crisp,
astringent
punch
to it

I think

And the asterisk
that twinkles nestled
between the rounded, cloven
globe of moonlight we all
gape at in stunned wonder
sometimes,

really is
muchlike a star 

*

so,
you know, I think people 

will catch on

many days

I see
I still 

have many days
- if nothing happens
untoward. I count
them in by twos,
by eye, in give
and give 'til take's
aboard. Who's counting,
anyway? Just one,
not I,
or

maybe no one
is.

Some spooky
thought, but that's
the biz. Already
bought and sold
in mind. Left lying 

everywhere
to find, in everything
that ever was, or
never is.  

she said she didn't say that

I want you to lose 
your hands in my hair
and find them again 
on my breasts, 
beware 
no record of this 
transaction occurs, 
so in any confusion 
of his or hers, you 
and I'll have to work 
it out and through. It's 
a trust fall, and a respect 
catch, boo. And it's spooky,
too. As boos can be. If that
works for you, I'll be fine

by thee.  

False rivalry

Poe thought Twain
a mountebank, and
Twain thought Poe 
a charlatan.
They disagreed
on what they meant,
and settled on a synonym. 

Twain kept his peace
in public over Poe. We
only know he thought him
almost as unreadable as Austen
from a private letter's evidence.

Poe's vitriol against Mark
Twain is speculative at best,
And how he came by it
would be hard to explain
or test. For when Poe died,
Sam Clemens was fourteen
at most, and not Mark Twain
at all, although

the early warning
signs were all no doubt
in place. Still, reading between
lines, it isn't hard to guess Poe's gall. 

These two were destined to cohabitate 
in unique spiritual pigeonhole
reserved for brilliant, querulous
malcontents - and neither man
liked sharing space

at all.    

the flying balcony

I had a dream
I had a flying balcony
that could attach to the side
of any building
with sufficient flat
surface area, and open
french doors to the interior
(which worked regardless
of wall thickness - the doors
opened outward).

It was of taupe stone with a concrete
floor and a wrought iron grill and railing,
kind of straight and featureless
like a big block motel. 

The thing is, in the dream
I didn't fly the thing. I was just
hanging out with some people and
I'd brought my balcony along. Everybody
knew about the balcony. No one was like "Can
you take me for a ride on the balcony?"

It would've been weird if they
had been! We were all so
totally ho-hum about
the flying

balcony.

consequence or coincidence

I met a debunker once
in a bunker
the whole place collapsed 

trip up

I imagine it's
relief and dread in one
more or less exhilarating line.
Running up a tightrope strung
from sea level to some imagined
starry peak! Peeked at and glimpsed
by looming blue distance lifelong, taken
half-seriously. Now, gaining elevation
in sure-footed sprint as the ground
gathers dizziness beneath you - well,
further on it might. You're not quite
treetops just yet! Just got started, but
you've been running so many miles
your feet have grown wings. You're
sure to find how far and high
this goes. No longer 
imagining
things. 

Into the unknown

Her eyes skinned me 
in one up
and down
swoop, and
she stuck a grin in the 
corner of her mouth
with her tongue.

I wasn't sure,
but she sure was, 
and that made me feel 
pretty nice. What I didn't 
know 

was that she was
a space alien, a paranormal 
underwater thing, a vampire, 
a supernatural monster - an 
angel. The reason I did not 
know this - among other 
reasons, such as in my 

experience, I don't tend 
to pick up on stuff like 
that - was that she

was none of those
things. What the who 

was she?

I thought 
I might be
about to find
out.

But
you never
really know 
'til you know, do

you

Grow so proud

Why do we get so proud? 
When our kids grow so 
big, so fast. Grow up, learn
to walk, talk, think, grow

bigger than us, outgrow

us.

We watch them coming
all the way bigger, stronger.
Harder, faster, more - why
do we get so proud

when they start
smacking us around, throwing
us into walls, revenge for snacks
withheld and groundings. Elder 

abuse, already! It's nothing to be 
proud of, but we grin and laugh -  
since 
we see something they don't. Their
own kids 

are coming up

right behind 
them.  

Do you act black?

She looked at me funny
once. Do you act black? 
she asked.

I looked at her funny
twice. Act black? That
sounds a little racist, I
thought. I didn't accuse
it, though - why would I?
I'd never caught her out 
racist. 

Do you know me? 
I asked. Yes! she laughed. 
Well, you tell me! Do I
act black? Was I just acting
black?

No,

she shook her head. Eyes on
further word search mode. 

I just thought, 
she said, 
Maybe you act
black sometimes -
when I'm not around? 

Yeah I don't know, I mused. 
Maybe I do and I just don't
know? But I don't think 
so. I thought. Hard. Then
again - I wouldn't though,
would I? 

How about - check me on it
if you see any, I summed up. Hey

wait. 

Keen look. Why'd you ask? 
Keen look back. Keen looks 
all around! I dunno, she said. 

Hey, I said - was it racist? Is that
it? Wanted to make sure I wasn't
betraying the master race on the
sly?
That's
racist, she
scowled.

I knew it!
I crowed! I didn't really 
know it, but you know - sudden 
hunch retroactive? I knew it. 

No! She glared. I was just, you
know. Making sure you weren't.

Racist.

We glowered warily in keen
intersecting glance. Disgusted. "Typical
white fragility," we said

simultaneously. Then
we had a staring contest, but 

we both blinked. 

mobile sculpture

You are mobile sculpture, 
but you hang together way better
than those wire and cutout shape
arrangements they used to call that.
You are marrow-deep armature
of truth, you are blood hot love
and sleek warm rose milk creamy
skin in blush of youth, in beauty's
wise experience - such shape and
swell and form within! Without

no clothes.

Or with
no clothes, which
is a nice touch either
way. And you move,
and you move me oh,

so much.

If statues could be
so beautiful as this, so
moving as this, we'd have
to take them down from
their pedestals, and
put clothes on them. 

elsewhere everywhere

One time I walked into a building
mid-construction, and found stacks
of two-inch-tall-by-four-inch-wide
boards.

They were really long, and I was a child
at the time so I hit one of them with my
clenched fist about as solid and hard as
I was able, because I wasn't walking, but
running. I was chasing someone, or being
chased, but man - that wham right on the
stacked and packed ends of those boards! 

It really put paid to whatever I was doing
just then, and my whole hand was so tight
and clenched, hot and throbbing that I couldn't

unmake a fist.

I had to just keep it like that for the time being.
I showed the kid I'd been playing with. They
touched it gingerly. Looked at me like "it's
your hand." I was like I KNOW! Hurts like a
damn bandit caught red-handed in an ill-advised
burglary of the pain store! Got what I came for,
but damn if I know WHY. 

It hurt for days.

My fingers were not into unbending, or bending
again once unbent. I remember being in school
with this weird hand, thinking about the unbuilt
building (par-built, really) and how fun it all could
have been in there, if I didn't swing my arms with
such unfeigned enthusiasm, or had perhaps developed
more situational body awareness vis-a-vis surrounding
objects, or even - who knows?

Improved hand-eye coordination? Could have helped? 

It couldn't have hurt. Not any worse, anyway. What if
somebody had yelled "Think fast!" as I ran in, and a ball
was flashing towards my head? And both hands flew up
just in time - perfect catch! As I flew by the stacked boards,
not even realizing my close call. And - who threw the ball? 

There was no one there. It was my guardian angel, maybe.

But then I left the building and went home, and there was no
one, anywhere.
The earth
had been deserted, or everyone
snatched up - eaten by angels? I was
the only one left - or maybe in that moment, everyone
had been shunted aside, plunged into their own personal
parallel planet of endless solitude, doomed
to wander alone and eke out
an aching, sad lonely
existence 'til
death? 

All told,
I'll take it how it actually happened.
It doesn't make much of
a story,

but it's
a painful piece

of a pretty good life. Still. 

I keep thinking about that ball, 
and would I have caught it? How 
different everything would be

the psychology of apparel vs. women

I think women
wear clothes sometimes
because 
clothes look great.
But 
clothes
are a narcissist,
so they're angry
and vain as hell
about how good
nudity looks. And

how people treasure
and enspecial precious
nudity, fetishizing it,
sexualizing it - wanting
to keep it all for exceptional
types. Real special occasion
stuff. Strut it buff!

Strip it off! A stunner of a reveal! 

Wow to the whoa to the awe,
yeah. Clothes can't stand being
shown
up like that.
Clothes can't stand the
comparison. They're like

"Look, I look great - way better than
nothing!"

(Clothes want to flatter you, lie
to you) "And
if you don't
agree to wear
us,"
(clothes),
"We're going to be very
unflattering on you."

Make you look
bad. Or if you
keep it up - pull
the dreaded discard!
Leave you stark ass
naked when you least
expect!

HA!
Humiliated
and shown up for the
showoff you are - so much
for "modesty" you streaking
egomaniac! Now who's the

"narcissist?"

Clothes. 

Women
have had to deal
with and balance
this toxic relationship
with clothes
their entire
lives,
yet
most
pull it off beautifully, 

now and then. 

Best of resolve.

I thought I'd get back 
into working out, because 
I like the energy, the feeling 
of power or at least

strength 
comparative strength, 
but I forgot about how 
enthusiastic I get 
throwing myself back
into something. And

the next day, experiencing
muscle pains outside my
body, like several feet to 
the left, 

for example (it's not predictable),
and how if I keep at it, and I
manage to rotate the dislocated,
disembodied muscle pain to
in front of me, after a week

or two,
it starts to 
manifest unwanted

telekinesis symptoms.
Not good. Not useful,
like holding your hand 
out and a pen flies to your 
easy grasp, no. More like 

a vengeful but really weak 
poltergeist. Undoing simple 
things you just did, or

knocking a piece of paper
off the deck. Like that. And 

every time it happens, I'm like

"How did I forget about this?
No more. 
No more working out,
it's not worth 
it
" 

girl gets down

The girl gets down on the internet.
She clicks
links
shares
reads
all of it. 
Or some of it anyway -
some of it sucks. 
She's keen to assess 
and equipped to judge.
She comments, reacts,
likes, follows and shit.
She's easy as hell,
carefree legit.

She pulls out a device
and tip tap! She's on.
She flips up the lid on 
her lap, and charge strong.

She's pretty much
commanding the flow
world wide in a wild web
swathe cut by her surf's wake
through an endless tide of

some real bull shit.
Some times, but
some good stuff,
too. Her size

the China problem

A lot of people are Chinese. 
It's normal. I am sick sometimes 
of the demonizing you get, people! 
Talking about China sometimes like 
you don't scarf down Chinese food 
every damn chance, and have two 
to three pet dishes - your go-to's 
in any unfamiliar rice and bits 
shop. Acknowledge - albeit, 
okay unconsciously - as 
landmark culinary bulwarks 
on the scheme of the global 
tongue and stomach. Yet talkin' 
'bout China this, China that, 
oh the China problem. Yeah

well 

didja ever stop to consider 
maybe people who make 
people problems are the 
real problem? How 'bout 
we demonize that and them
instead? See what that solves

The critic

There are few 
notable film performances 
in film history. True, there 
was that one guy or gal (you 
decide) in that one where
all that shit happened, with
the themes. But mostly we 
get actors haplessly botching  
bad lines, unraveling in front 
of increasingly CGI backgrounds. 
Literature is no different. No matter 
how I cast those movies mentally, 
performances are wooden, and strike 
symphonies of false notes from subpar 
materials. Art has had nothing of note 
since modernism, which itself was a 
fever dream fiesta of so called master 
pieces looking at least half like crap 
all the time. Prior to modernism: a 
lot of artificially lit sunsets and 
boring studies. Nature pictures 
and posed myth - clearly an
excuse to pander to the public's 
thirst for snob-approved nudity. 
I wonder what those snobs would 
think of today's porn! I find it 
listless. Uninspired, penetrated 
and shot through with unreal 
touches, concocted and derived. 
Only now and then do we see 
a real, winning performance 
that moves us. 

your eyes twice

I forgot your eyes 

and was horrified 
when I remembered
your face 
without them

That was the second time.

I forgot your eyes once 
before. It was when
we met yet again.
You reminded me hard
to the back of my head
- and lost in them,
I apologized. 

Your eyes came back to me
like I'd always known;
came back like
the dead. 
Arise. 

A thing for a redhead

No, I don't prefer redheads.
Although I have had a thing
for redheads, but I don't
prefer them. This one redhead,
ooooooo mam. She was...oh,
she was soft. Tall and soft,
and soooo pale, with a mess
of freckles. Her voice was
soft, and I bet her body was
soft too, but you know.

She just looked so soft.
In fact she just kind of poured
everywhere, like water. She
poured through your eyes,
looking at her. She'd say
"hi!" and you'd be like

"Oh, HI!" and she'd be
pouring into you for a while.
Later she'd pour out, you'd kind
of say goodbyes, all cheery -
she'd pour off. Pour away
all soft.

Pour girl. Do you know
what happened to her? Me
either.

The more I think about it,
I get suspicious. It could be
she was some kind
of space alien
or monster
or some thing. People
are never that soft. We don't
pour everywhere. She

was no typical redhead - if you
know what I mean! Is there, really,
a "typical redhead"?
She wasn't.
She did
have a bright
red head, though.
Definitely a redhead.

Couldn't miss it.

A thing for a redhead, yes. For
a while, there.
I wouldn't call it

a preference, though.
Not quite the right word.

Call it a thing. Perfect. 

Can't decide

Can't decide between
two things? Wait - see
if you can find a flat,
round,
object with a human head
depicted on one side, and
a bird
on the other.

In the USA
we have tons
of these, called
"quarters" because
it was once thought
the "tails" side was George
Washington's BUTT - i.e.
hindquarters.

When it was realized it
was his head, it was shortened
to "quarters." At that point,
we stopped calling it
the "heads" side,
making the bird-side
"tails"

Naturally. (Which makes no real sense, stick with
me though.)

Anyway
we use these things
to make any decision involving
people vs. birds. It's a toss-up! If
it lands with a person showing,
go people. "Heads" it is. If you see
BIRD
- go birds.
The system's perfect 
almost. Like letting the universe 
steer 
for you

with its bum 

Trust me

You're a cute chick, baby 
- but a foul look on a sweet 
mug is sometimes bullshit.
For instance -

- look at you. With a body like
that! UH! Very popular on the 
eyes naturally. A body like that 

with a head that just won't quit
making crazy bigface melodrama.
Like a stage actor, overcompensating
for something, trying to put one way
over on the crowd. Well, I just

want to tell you it works. I buy 
the whole act grin, sway and glare, 
and I don't think you're fooling me 
one
bit. 

Advice for you

The advice you get
is the only advice you
should take. Don't get
in a pigfight. The pig wins.
Don't bet on a bad bet. Bet
on a good one instead! Don't 
count your money - SIDDOWN!
Know when it's right or wrong to
do or don't.   

Then you'll know how, 'cause you'll 
know what. Or why.

Then you'll be the one giving advice.
They'll just have to take it or leave it. 
Which, they'll probably be able 

to tell.  

the thousand forces

The thousand forces settle in
to make you fit. If so, they win!
- if you misfit, they win as well!

'Til you fit out.
That must be hell,
or else they're false.
Redouble it. The nail stuck out
shall be pound flat.

Unless it sticks.
Then celebrate
this object we
could not
make pat.

stunts and tries

The world is for my purposes, 
and set against my dreams, 
designs in scrawl by chalk
and charcoal chiaroscuro, 

or so it seems as paper balks
in light so blind, and falls
apart to sections, torn
and spent by fury's 
scribblings.

Still good for fire.
Keep us warm. 

The problem with my dream's
designs is that they're abstract. 
Frivolous,

 
some
say. 

I say

the world is for such
purposes gratuitous. 
Which as we know
and let them play,
can come in quite
fortuitously. Even more
than lifetime's want
could show,

that is, 

until you see
and know, so
grow. So much,
so far, so better yet
than necessary. 

The world is so much
more for stunts and tries
than any need could be, 

eventually. 

Who knows how
far it could be for.
The only one who
tries and finds 
and larks and
plays 
perfects
the score. Leaving
practice far
behind. 

the monster in time

The boom 
boom
boom
grew louder felt closer 
so fast before they'd noticed 
or placed it, they saw 
- from various angles 
all around the room -
a shadow of frozen
light walked forth
in unhurried pace
at alarming rate
towards them, from

the blank institutional
yellow-painted concrete
wall - from
seemingly
a thousand,
ninehundred,
sixhundred,
threehundred 

yards it closed
within wall distance
- they stood transfixed 
as a horrible human voice
with a reverb effect from the
1960s boomed out "It would be
a mistake to use those
weapons!"
and 

walking right through the wall, 
without stopping it stood. It/he 
(exaggerated male voice) looked 
like a bad special effect scratched 
directly into the film by a needle,
only turned up to soft blinding. "Who 

the
what
are you?"

gasped the hard, pretty
evil boss, speaking without
a sneer for the first time in years. 

"I am a bad special effect."

"I am the light by darkness blest!"

"I am the bad that does its best 
by doing it wrong in every mess." 

"I am Just Awfulperson!" it boomed. 
"You look upon that which should not be!"
Its voice altered color each utterance.
Panic attack - synesthesia comes free.

"I am dread and wonder together in one!"
"And that means awe!" "And I'm full of it!"
"It would be a mistake
to hurt innocents!"

- here it jerked its head at two,
bound and gagged - "And
I'm giving these fools the
benefit!" 

They seemed gleeful, yet
not quite calm at this. 
The innocents, I mean
- that's if they were.

The ten armed thugs
stood stock, shocked
still. Well, 

they would,
wouldn't you?
This thing had 
skill.  

It continued to be.

It continued to boom
in its deep, shrill voice
without evidence. It
wasn't showing up
on the cameras at
all. It was used 
to that, by now. 
Made sense. 

"I'm Just Awfulperson!"
"And I am Just!"
"For I treat the bad
worse than they deserve!" 

"That's not just!" yelped
the boss. "You're a hypocrite!" 

"It's Just Awful, then." It grinned
absurd - just awful to see. "Shall

I keep my word?"  

Everyone looked confused at that. 

"My whole presence here is a lie!"
It twisted the knife. "It would be a

mistake in fact 
to know I exist,
or believe
I don't!"

"What if

I use 

reverse-psychology?"

"What if
I really 
want
you to use
your weapons?" 

The floor made a noise of dropped guns. 
The goons seemed confused. Did they
want to do that?

The innocents 
seemed less innocent, then
as the thing in the room turned grey 
and black  

Investigators later were mystified. 
An assortment of guns, two chairs 
untied, and thirteen shadows of
frozen light looked back
from a yellow

institutional wall
of fact, 

surprised

hold up

People who caper
in traipsing prance
as they pass me by
like I had a chance 
as I watch them go
in their jaunty way 
while I stand fast
statue-still all day - 
I would like to know
where the hell they get
off. Scott-free on their wide
and wending ways, wherever
they wish. As above it all,
I

look
down 
in fixed stare
from my pedestal.

digital, manual, liminal

digital, manual, liminal, 
stimulus, once to response 
and next too continuous. 
Test, pass and fail, and 
succeed in predictive 
result - or just make 
it the premise's fault 

To Rudy Francisco, in re: If You Find Yourself

With thanks to Melissa
THAT is exactly like a poem
I'd write. Only subtle wit where
I barge dim, bold - and more cultured,
in a natural way. More urbane where
I'm clueless, wandering cosmopolitan.

Different ways, styles, no doubt ends 
but kindred sensed in lack of means 
to fix what's perfectly described, 
however hard or easily we lie. 

Why lie at all? When you're 
down, entirely alone, plus 
prone, everyone knows 
you're lying. Might 
as well own.