Maybe we have reached perfection
the world, I mean
I don’t care enough to lie
well how do I respond
that I agree
we’re perfect
death is no penalty
I am taxed fairly
I’ll learn to be old while
young from old
I’m high you’re high
in air active with sounds
of conclusions such as
perfect mistakes
air I won’t inhale
readers of poems
write poems
film watchers
only watch but maybe
a character in the film
reminds them of their
favorite person with
the most benevolent face
I ever fear for and
regret the times I said
no I do not believe it
though it could be true
I have decided not
to believe and any
existing suspicion
I will deem insanity
to be quashed
not to be believed
what expression you
make when you are
hearing nonsense
when you conclude
I conclude


My brother towed cars for seven or eight years. He didn’t tow cars for hire - like if you broke down somewhere, and you wanted your car towed to a shop to be fixed because you wanted to eventually get the car back, nah - or if you owned a business and people parked in no parking zones outside of your business, and you needed somebody to come tow a car away, no - he only towed cars that people had given up on - cars they wanted to junk. He would actually buy the junk car, he’d give you twenty-five bucks, or so, and he’d tow it off of your yard. He’d tow it to the junk yard and sell it for scrap metal.

The person selling the car must have the title to the car. Sometimes people would try to sell other people’s cars to him. Do not try to fool the tow truck driver, and definitely do not try to rob the tow truck driver. He carried a gun. He had fools try to pull all kinds of stuff on him. When he would lie down and reach under a car, to hook up to the axle, he’d see feet running up on him. He popped up with gun drawn and smile glowing and eyes big, “What’s up? Huh? What’s up?”

Sometimes my brother would be on the road going to or coming from, and I’d be out driving around, and we’d see each other. I would park my car and get into his wrecker and roll with him for a while. We’d roll five or six hours getting smokey and listening to the radio. He’d point to the radio and say, “I bet you don’t even know who this is.” Sometimes he’d get a page to go tow a car, and I go with him. We would ride around way into the night, long after the calls for tows stopped coming in. He lived in that wrecker practically. It was cool to visit him.


The cat is not giving me CPR
when I realize what
shot out of the howling lawnmower
I wake up on a hammock
the cat is softening up a comfort spot in
the sad hole in my chest
lonely Saturdays I do nothing with
I could have remained at my desk
Friday evening and closed my
eyes until Monday morning

Smiling, I order from a catalogue
warming up the copier
the coffee machine accumulated
one drop all weekend
hanging there, finally falling
I miss lemonade
too late to get my head straight
I didn’t care about payday
I haven’t flipped pages on my calendar
. . . another way to self publish, is to write your writing on a simple piece of paper. It can be anything, but only write on one side of the page. Fold it up until it’s only a couple inches by a couple inches, and then write the following on the outside, “Password,” or “Account Number,” or both . . . and then just leave it somewhere in public. Somebody is bound to unfold it and read it. They’re thinking, “Wow, somebody’s password and account number! I’m going to access their account or somethin . . . “ Also lately, I’ve been ‘modifying restaurant menus with labels, like Avery Mailing labels, stickers that I make, with little pieces of writing on them. Or, I’ll just take my stickers, and not even peel the backing off of them, and leave them like calling cards in books at book stores or in the sugar packet containers in restaurants. Why do I do this mess? Because I can’t get published in journals . . . And I'm a little kooky in my head.


Saying less. Writing more.
I am pretty sure I won’t have enough money or benefits to retire on. I’ve been wondering what type of job I will get once I am discarded by the company I give my most productive career years to. What part time job will I have to do? (I hope it’s part time.) A green house? Too much heavy lifting. A cashier somewhere? Maybe, but they’d have to be pretty lenient on the drawer count with my fumbling, spaced out, Alzheimer's ass. Motel desk clerk? Yeah. Just ride a desk behind bullet proof glass watching HBO all night. Book store? Too much heavy lifting. Kitchen? That’s some hard damned work. I don’t know. After my dad retired, he became a teacher - like an adjunct - he taught safety courses and blue print reading courses to apprentices. He absolutely loved it. He didn’t really need to work, he was just so bored with retirement. He worked as a designer for forty years, and he considered teaching the perfect job for him after all that. Maybe I could be a substitute teacher. Hell - I’ve been thinking about doing that anyway - like now - like instead of what I’m doing now. I don’t know what I will do, but I’m not really dreading it. It will be good to stay connected to real life, to keep active.

I used to frequent a Barnes & Noble near a job I had. I was in there all the time. Every time I was there, this old guy was there. I mean always. He was asleep nearly every time I saw him, so I never really got to talk to him. He was a curmudgeonly guy too, he didn’t seem to want to talk to anybody. He was either asleep, or hovering around the couches and chairs, waiting for somebody to get up so he could crash. He would snore so loud! Sometimes on my way to work, I would pass by the store and see him asleep in his old station wagon, in the parking lot, because the store had not opened yet. I used to imagine the worse circumstances: His retirement savings ran out, his meds got too expensive, the taxes on his house got to be too high, he burned up his equity. . . who knows. What did he do? Wander around all night and sleep during the day? I guess it’s safer to sleep during the day, when you’re homeless, so plenty of people can see you. I used to imagine the very worse: He would go to sleep at Barnes & Noble, and at closing time, the staff would make the announcement that it was closing time, and they’d flick the lights, and they’d impatiently walk back and forth by him and clear their throats . . . and then they’d realize he wasn’t snoring anymore . . .


the SOUND CHECK for the karaoke contest


. . . losing it in the twizzle section . . .

That's right, a T-shirt writer.


I have so many different practices I want to put into practice lately. I am watching my spending. Establishing credit. Researching home buying. Exercise, jogging or something. Not sticking to an exercise routine at all. Work. Building an appreciable block of experience at a particular job instead of hopping around. Mental health - trying to peace out - trying not to grind up my physical health because of mental gliches. Writing. I started writing in a physical journal using one of those things . . . what's it called . . . a pen. My blog routine is suffering. Any other writing routine is suffering. I swear - I go to work, and afterwards I am so beat, I just boob out in front of the TV. It is tough to get up and do something. The internet is an incredible time sucker. The only routine I'm keeping is the commencement of new routines. And I like having time to do just dumb stuff. Play with cats. Bounce a bouncey ball. Juggle a little tiny soccer ball I have in the bedroom . . . TV TV TV - I was raised on it. I'm thinking that if I have to buy a new TV for the digital TV revolution (is there such a thing coming? Is it all going digital, and so your TV won't work anymore?) - if this does happen - and a new TV is needed, I will forgo that mess for a while and catch up on everything else. I was going to complain about how my Netflix thing slowed way down a month or so into it - at first I'd send them back and they'd acknowledge receipt and send the next day! But now it takes them four days! I was going to complain about that - but NO! I'm glad! More time between movies! I actually miss my DSL down time - I actually rose up out of my Matrix pod and wiped off the slime and did stuff! I HAVE BEEN READING THE SAME BOOK FOR TWO MONTHS! AND IT'S A GOOD BOOK! I AM A SAD SAD CHARACTER.


. . . back when I used to drink alone a lot . . . um . . .

Talking to self? Or tiny phone clipped to ear?

Watching the imaginary movie they make about me. Everybody does it. Don't they? Don't you? Watching that movie on a little couch in my head. Hoping they'll remember to include this particular scene and that one too.


Twenty-four hour grocery stores and department stores
are indeed public spaces where you can go and live
minutes per aisle - even if you are not homeless
but would you start a poem there?

Could I block out all of the customers at the restaurant and
dwell two feet tall among the tables and booths
and table cloths like tents and
plants and decorations like memorial parks

Why did you do this to me?
Where are you?

I am a ghost who barely appears on in-store security TV monitors
I quit my job and work in the restaurant
I live back there where the the dirty dishes go
Do I really need sleep?


Speeding east on 840, as the conversation got more and more grim, more and more road kill began to appear.