Notes to Self

1

Let nothing be what it had been
except when otherwise it would have had to be
what it could not have been had it been

otherwise. Do not surmise! Excise
the least impediment to understanding that which
once may have been understood

beyond the intercession of the understanding
of the thing which had obtained
before you started.

2

Tons and tons
of things to do!
Hunnilingus –
and Fung Ku!
Humpty-dumping!
Egg Yung Foo!
Tons and tons
of things to do!

 
 
 
 
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Four Naked Thoughts

I blinked – and saw four
naked thoughts rush round
in flushed pursuit – to chase?
no – to escape and to erase

wherever they’d just been
as if for me to find whatever
they had trafficked in
would constitute such

monstrous sin that none of us
could possibly survive.
And then I blinked again
and they were gone – had

dived back to that packed
impenetrable dawn where
thoughts put their alarming
and transparent raiment on.


 
 
 
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Your Secret Uncle Otto

Next time you feel the urge to get up out of bed,
turn on the light, and sing, go ahead and do the thing.
Behind you, find your secret Uncle Otto, impresario! –
hungry for the chance! – song-and-dance-man
invoked to stoke you up
to boogie down: the clown who cannot wait

to set you prancing through the gate:
feel him imploring in back of you,
to crack it open, crank it up –
kick your doubt and wail it out,
whack it – with a wide vibrato.
Do it till you’re blotto.

Say good night to Uncle Otto.





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Spot-lit

Every moment is eternity,
a spot-lit instant on the podium,
a chance to seize the opportunity
to rail against the dark opprobrium

of fear.
Even when it is a blitz,
Life is dear.
So what if nothing fits.






.

Till Death Do You Part

Life sits waiting
like a date
met in a chat room
on the Internet –
zaftig and opinionated,

drinking something
pink, alien
as lead: a hook-up
whom you have to
take to bed.






.

The Man In You

Groggily ascending from a lengthy dive,
the man in you arrived today, sooty
from the smoke of the decay of your

complacency: at last released to play
in all his dangerously blue and gold array
of blunt virility. Grumpy, half-awake –

an awkward infacility – pissed at having
been ignored – he’s bored up into you:
you gasp and blink: he is the stink

of the commencement of the primal day,
with its insistence you’re alive. Be vigilant:
the man in you decided to arrive.




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Spirits of Unequal Love

The spirits of unequal love
(one from below, one from above)
came down and up to me today,

entwined their warring chocolate,
strawberry flavors in a calm
complacent sort of way, resigned

to the design of their unpalatable
bond. One remembered one of them
had once desired the other more,

but neither could recall who’d played
that dreary bore. But here they
are again, much as before.




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