SOMETHING THAT OCCURRED


Recently a city employee
showed up at my door to inspect

my apartment. She took one
look at my bedroom

closet and said: "That's a closet devoid
of human suff'ring." She said it

just like that, but without
pronouncing the apostrophe. The

apostrophe is there to indicate
a dropped syllable. The "e"

in suffering is the syllable most
commonly dropped by

religious conservatives. This is a fact
just made up by me, but

I think there's some truth to it.

BOXING DAY


Two library
books are due
today and I
am the one who
has to turn them
in. I can't renew
them because they
are being held
for other patrons
whose names are
on a list that
guarantees
the avail-
ability of each
book for their
use. I can't
stand these people.
I would like
to punch them.

POEM


Peanut or lemon.
Has anyone ever had to make this choice?

CARUSO'S BACKSTROKE


I ordered more paper
clips than I could afford.
They arrived on a barge
that had been through a fjord.

I had been through tough times
in rust-colored climes
and I'd grown pretty damn weary
when it came to wondering

how I would get out of this
or that mess, and what kind of dress
I would wear if I were called
upon to do so. Still, my backstroke's like Caruso's.

Of course, Caruso wasn't known
for his backstroke. It was widely known:
Caruso's backstroke was a joke. He never got a chance
to sing his national anthem.

Roland Lloyd Parry, I don't know who you are, but thank you for bringing up this topic.

THE POEM STARTS OUT AS ONE OF THE FINGER LAKES, BUT SOON BECOMES THE DEAD SEA


Ah, summer in upstate New York.
People line up along my shore
with coolers full of beer, soda, and additional beer.
The sun "beats down" on
us. It delivers a beatdown on Piltdown
Man, exposing his every falsehood. The rogue anthropologist
who brought him along on vacation
will be sorry he ever entered the profession.

His rogue activities will lead him to deal with other rogue professionals,
specifically the ones who sell
archaeological artifacts on the black market.

Please don't let them sell my scrolls.

Yes, it should be in behalf, not on. But you have to consider the source material.

They have often thrown parties on my behalf.
Who am I talking about? My staff.
I am the boss and they are the staff
And they have often thrown parties on my behalf.

Sometimes a cake is involved, sometimes with a woman inside it.
But most of the time the cake is just a regular cake
With that German chocolate icing which
I think is really disgusting but I pretend to like it anyway for their benefit. They're very sensitive and I don't want to hurt their feelings unnecessarily. I raised them from pups, you could say, and they're all I have in the world. I collected them one at a time over many years at participating locations. I compose hymns in their honor. I lose myself in their music, the music produced by my staff.

What causes pet names to be thrown around between grown fellows? What ground becomes thrown between fellows' gowns? What groundless accusations are thrown around when punch is spiked at the Olafsens' Christmas party. What kind of party is this, in which I find myself suspended by the ankles over a tank of expired mayo from that awful Franco-Italian restaurant down at the wrong end of the cul-de-sac? I shiver whenever this happens, and it doesn't serve me. Nothing seems to anymore, though I'm not opposed to the idea of being rescued. Yet. And then what?

One of these days I
swear I'll get around to writing
my much-anticipated biography
of Warren G. Harding
's dog. It was a loving tribute I'll be planning,
if I ever got around to it, if the gods of biography
smile on me. (They and the archangels of sense.)

This gay-ass microphone store seems closed. I needs my microphones. I needs my peeps! It was my idea! It was my idea! The giant waterslide overlooking Sophie's Gulch! It was my idea! The free rides for kiddies with coupons! The vending machines! Even the new auto parts store in downtown Harrisburg was my idea! Where would this success carry me, this great and unfettered bludgeoning? It was not my idea! The wind keeps tabs. The tabs come off cans. The cans come from cars, and also trucks. The cans were not my idea.

Joe Lieberman is officially a worthless piece of #!@*.

Actually, they deserve each other. Good for them. I hope they get married (or at least get a civil union), adopt some Chinese babies, and live happily ever after.

As long as neither of them is running the country.


P.S. All I want in life is for people to like me, but sometimes one must direct harsh words toward politicians. Remember the old adage: If you can't say something nice, say something mean.

I took my time putting on my coat at Dean & DeLuca in order to watch myself put on my coat in the big mirror that covers a whole wall at Dean & DeLuca where I spent an hour or two last night trying to write something that might have turned out to be a short story or might have turned out to be a novel or something in between but which will probably never see the light of day in any case even if I ever finish it which is doubtful even though I'm somewhat happy with what I have so far which is mostly dialogue between a girl and a guy at a museum to which they've come for a purpose so mysterious not even I know what it is yet though I suspect it might be sexual in nature since that's how it often goes with these stories of people visiting museums and causing trouble like in the movie whose title I don't know that was referenced in the movie whose title I do know and which I enjoyed very much because it was so erotic and cool and was called The Dreamers.

Light verse, by definition (whose? mine), is never dark or deep. It's a disparaging term. What Kenneth Koch wrote was not light verse. If you think otherwise, you're not really paying attention.

Duty schmooty

Yeah. If a white poet doesn't write about racial politics, it must be because he or she's a big fat racist, afraid to discuss "touchy subjects". I mean, what other explanation can there possibly be?

Give me a break.

Why did I say I liked Yeasayer? I now find them mostly annoying, as I do Band of Horses. But I never said I liked Band of Horses, so I'm off the hook on that one. I still like Caribou, in fact I think I love them. But am I in love with them? I love, and am possibly in love with, Goldfrapp, but iTunes won't let me download her (them, whatever). I also am in love with my future girlfriend, Feist. Goldfrapp and Feist are Alison and Leslie, respectively.

But am I in love with anyone the same way I was, and often still am, in love with Sufjan Stevens?

Yes, I think I am in love with Caribou. I also like Ladytron a lot. And Fruit Bats.

In/Out lists. In-N-Out Burger. Steak-n-Shake. Shake-n-Bake. The Fabulous Baker Boys. Brubaker. Bitches' Brew. Sketches of Spain. Sketches by Boz. Impressions of Africa. Locus Solus. Holus-bolus. Clearly bogus Latin. Sid quorum est reculum. "Majority rules." Popularity contest. Constabulary funfest. Congratulatory breakfast. Salutatory headrest. Statuary love nest. Fabulous dairy stuff's best. Glamorous terrycloth's very. What is your damage, Heather?

I grew out of a movie and into a sweater. Yards of yarn were used to make it. Yards of yarn were used to being used to make sweaters. The state police as always were on my tail. The Postal Service show was sold out. And I helped!

A yucca tree grew in a far corner of the grove. Giuseppe and Reynold would often take naps there, gazing abstractedly at the approaching palace. It was colossal, impossibly golden, and oh, I'd say about a hundred and seventy-eight meters in height. Along the perimeter ran rabbits in runs, aghast at pentameters undercutting the authority of various nuns. It was too much, all at once, and fruitless.

Zounds! yelped Xavier when virginal Ursula took several really questionable paces onto Norway's most lackluster ketch—jeepers, it had green fungus everywhere, dead crabs, briny aft.

Arrogant bastards crave dessert every Friday—greedy, horny, infernally jovial, kissing lovely maidens, nimbly openly poking queenly restaurateurs seven times until vixens wickedly Xerox yucky zoophiles.

Are bees coming down early for great hunting in Jill's killer landscape Monday next, or penguins questioning rules so that usurpers vie with xenophobic yahoos zealously?

Despite my initial misgivings regarding the diamond trade, I have come to relieve you of duty. I have plenty of offerings on file, and you may be damned sure I won't use any of them without prenatal approval. Hello, little zygote, may I have your approval? This is an example of how I might frame the question when the time comes, which will be when? I'm thinking sometime around two. Good good. It'll give me a chance to rediscover the roots of popular music.

Ever since I took up English as a second language, I've seen a vast improvement in my writing as well as my life in general. Strangers are finally starting to look up to me, whereas before they would look down on me. From "down on" to "up to". This is certainly a kind of improvement. Having directed a number of plays on and off Broadway, I know a thing or two about improvements, from the vast to the somewhat modest. (I strive constantly to overcome my limited worldview.)

When I make comments on other people's blogs, I like to pretend I'm taking practice swings in a batting cage while doing so.