14 August, 2020

Debriefing of a (failed) marketing campaign: Notes from April 2020

Rain today and tomorrow. Some wind now. I don't mind rain or the raggedy yard. I'm making peace with the hole in the roof until the rain ends and the roof is repaired. My ankle is healing, though my hip still aches from stepping in the sump pit, especially during the wetter winds.

Like today.


Was a time I'd make myself see

the positive – that maybe

our capacity to learn will overtake

our need to make the world burn –

that we can rebuild out of these ashes

some ( ) thing.


Looks more like a rerun than a reboot

I'm still a fugitive from too many apocalypses. Burning oil fields and floods and mountains on fire. Swine Flu. SARS. MERSA. West Nile carrying mosquitoes.

The first End Times galloped after me when I was four, tried to choke me in the night. The world was burning then, too. And it has been trying to kill me ever since.


It's difficult to tell whether the marketing campaign failed because the consuming public never accepted the death of the Kennedy Brothers. Or something deeper. Something more congenital. Something bred in the bones that, as the Bard says, must will out in the flesh.


Pale fuzzy globs born to be men but too fragile and sugar-based schlep and schmooze through the streets, dinosaur death reenactors, trying to conjure that hobble into being yet again, with new cheap packaging wrapped around the the same necrotic flesh.


Blame Nixon                  Blame LBJ

Blame Hoover               Blame the bomb

The true accounting won't make the final report

and what remains will be illegible

until unborn readers learn

the language scribbled

on bone dust.


Now's no time to retreat

to some fabricated notion of civility –

some Eisenhower inspired dream carried

forward by forgetful bureaucrats

who still copy Nixon on rain-soaked memos

and send them to the capitol of Arkansas.

03 August, 2020

I keep me in a drawer - Notes from the month of June

I keep me 
in a drawer: 
saved for 
special occasions  
when I can't be 
spared the 
of proving, 
by some 
that I exist.

For the sake of argument, 
assume you are lying
to yourself with  the
best of intentions and with
the worst possible

Often I'm told
I'm wrong     but
to be fair
after so many
years believing
it's a hard lie
to let go.

After “The Arsonist's Lullaby”

There is no keeping your demon
on a leash – but you should
on the regular, give it a hug.




what the



The best form of flattery

None of this interests me. The scrambling. The Fear. Sometimes, for the sake of others, I talk myself into anxieties. I learned this trick when I was very young and mistook it for compassion. The mistake people make is assuming that deeply emotional people are naturally compassionate. This wasn't the case for me. My emotions rang out so loud that other people's were drowned out. It's like being born without skin, but being asked to hug everyone so they feel better. Every touch feels like 3rd degree sunburns. 

It took me decades to figure out that nearly everyone else is a mimic, too. They just don't always know it.

Mockingbirds sing
and everywhere
people look for sparrows.

Down by the cleansing waters (after Oppenheimer)

No one is baptized only once.
Every day we dip into the water
diving to avoid 
the unanswering currents.

After Brodsky –

People act as if
burning governors
in effigy's a new
thing. Politics
has never been
civilized, no
matter what
Ms. Sue tried 
teaching us
in Social Studies.

Tools for tyrants
never fear history
because they never
learned it
in the first place.

The thing about them
(tyrants) is you
never know how
successful they
will be until after

the fact when we've
misplaced all the bodies.

Memorial Day (After America Died)

All of this has happened before.

I've done the social media outrage. 
Sort of feels like masturbation 
with 40 grit sandpaper. Sometimes 
I envy people's ability to just get angry, 
like I sometimes envy people's ability 
to drink just one cocktail. How in the hell 
do they DO that? Because I can't

have just one shot of bourbon and I can't
just lose my temper and let it splooge
like so much flotsam on the internet
with so much satisfaction. I'll just 
keep writing poetry and assume

the fascists are en route.