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a good, clean look into the Abyss

August 19, 2025
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when the horizon ceases retreating

and reveals itself to be the event horizon

into nothingness,

you are approaching the Abyss

with its constant, gentle tug on you,

and near-subaudible surroundsound, a compelling

whisper, both lullaby

and anthem.

if you anchor yourself to the still-here

and lean over a bit

it’s a rare opportunity

to see and hear that obliterative destination

and, if sufficiently defiant,

to spit in its non-eye.

.

a good, clean look into the Abyss reveals it to be

a nonreflecting mirror,

a sensory-deprivational membrane, deep

yet infinitely thin, in which your speculative notions

are trampolined and echoed back into your head.

the lullaby? you have hummed it yourself all

your life, from God i just want some sleep to

there must be peace and quiet somewhere…

the fight song that kept you going

when you were on the brink of breakdown:

i can do this one more day, i swear/that’s all i can commit to, I’m aware.

you continue fearlessly looking into the Abyss

and sensory deprivation causes crazy colors to swirl

like a melted bowl of electric-rainbow sherbet,

and snatches of deceased-friends conversation,

surely hypnotically suggested and induced,

drift up.

no one is really there

yet a throng is UNreally there, making itself heard

as loudly as the imaginary numbers

essential to mathematics.

any spit you had intended to launch into the Void

has evaporated; or maybe the Abyss took it from you.

it is time to back away.

.

a notion persists

long after you retreat to the safety of solidity:

we are not alone

when we cease to be.

desire and reluctance

August 18, 2025
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the apneatic man wants air/and gasps/and gets some/as he awakens.

his mouthbreathing has made him thirsty./down the hatch some water goes.

now his appetite rears up/and tells him he needs steak and shrimp/at his favorite sports bar & grille./his appetite adds,/furtively,/that it would be nice/if a certain woman were there.

the certain woman IS there./she glances up when he comes in./he sees that his usual seat at the bar is vacant/and he strolls over and takes it.

he and the woman/have always sat at opposite sides of the bar/and have never exchanged words.

now, though, they look at each other./across a distance of twelve feet or so/they share the fact/of awareness of the other’s existence.

the restrooms are on his side of the bar./as she passes him on the way to the ladies’/he summons enormous courage/and gives her another glance/and says a casual “hey.”

after she is done in the ladies’/she gives him a little grin as she passes/and says mutedly/”hey yourself, cowboy.”

she rejoins her friends and says something/and they glance his way/and one murmurs sotto voce/and they giggle.

his heart flips around a little. he thinks of how/from the moment he awoke/he had needs, for air and then water/and they were quickly met. he is here for sustenance…

and perhaps companionship…

it could happen…

and then his mood is shattered, his hopes are dashed.

she has pulled from her purse (o God no) a pack of cigarettes.

TILT. game over./nothing can ever happen between them.

thankful that the bar lady hadn’t gotten round to him, he quickly exits, squinching his eyes to the still-high sun.

brainwringing

August 16, 2025
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pursuant to not going gentle, nor gently,

nor genially into that goodbadindifferent night,

i challenge and chivvy my sulky brain

to produce, which is why you are reading this.

.

it had been a long day.

i told my brain we needed a new poem, pronto.

my brain said, “i got nothin.'”

“that is a lot of hooey,” i shot back,

“you got plenty,

but you are lazy

and I shall have to wring you out.”

i reached into my head

with my third and imaginational hand

and single-handedly pulled my brain

[popping sound]

out of my head,

held its spongy form before my eyes,

and squeezed.

.

a few droplets–

cherry gumdrop-flavored teardrop-shaped droplets–

oozed from my brain and I shook them free,

compelling them to hang suspended

and reveal their contents

when touched.

.

i touched the leftmost cherry teardrop

and it said in a chimy voice

desire and reluctance

conduct civil war. the trick will be to write that one

without revealing whom you desire.

i touched another.

get inside the head of an ICE recruit.

another.

a wave slaps the viewpoint character in the face

and she gets cold saltwater in her nose

and she cries saltwater,  becoming daughter and mother to the sea.

i stuff my brain back into my head.

i drink the cherry teardrops.

I stop writing for now.

Menagerie

August 15, 2025
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Menagerie

Making friends again with clay

Efferversced your mood today

Notwithstanding sky-so-gray–

Amplified that riff-strewn sound;

Gotten butterflies astound

Everyone with what you’ve found.

Raise a glass to absent friends.

Iridescent dusk descends

East to west where rainbow wends.

Rig/Ma/Role

August 14, 2025
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1. Rig

In order to be a functional professional tomato slicer

You need a pair of slip-resistant shoes

You need an apron

You need a hairnet (plus a beardnet if your facial hair exceeds 1/8″)

You need six gloves, and each hand must wear a glove sandwich of vinyl glove, mesh-cloth cut-resistant gloves, vinyl glove (nitrile gloves may be used instead of vinyl if there is an allergy)

You need protective sleeves on your arms

A compliant work uniform

A large container to throw tomato scrap in for possible use as salsa ingredients

A sheet tray (layman’s “cookie sheet”) or the lid to an XXL container to rest the hand-operated tomato slicer on that will keep tomato juices and seeds from making a mess on your station’s work surface

Product trays to put the sliced tomatoes in

A roll of 12″ plastic film in a box with a built-in cutter to wrap the tomato trays in

Labels that accurately describe net tomato weight, creation date, use by date, and description (“Sliced Tomatoes”) to affix to the plastic film after wrapping

And you will need two tomato slicers,

One of which is yourself

.

2. Ma

I never called my late ma Ma

Nor even called her Mother

But since our time is limited

I call my brother Brother.

.

3. Role

Today I have been a sleeper, an alarmist, a driver, an idler, an employee, a tomato slicer, a diner, a puzzle solver, a correspondent, a customer, a distant admirer, a fertilizer manufacturer, and a poet. The last two roles are not mutually exclusive.

Betty Bette Bettie and then Ted Ted Ted

August 11, 2025
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Betty Bacall won Bogart’s heart

Bette Davis was Baby Jane

And Bettie Page; ah, she was naughty and smart

Turned bondage to Craft and fetish to Art

But all three had knocked over an applecart

For delectation and gain

All are gone but all remain.

.

Ted Williams Ted Danson Ted Kennedy too

One hit one kept bar one made scandal

One demonstrates what might testosterone do

When a man burns the hedonist’s candle

One went out a slugger one’s still in the mix

One hung in and passed legislation to fix

The wrongs of the right with their stones and their sticks

So it goes as new parents will dandle

All the babes bills and bliss they can handle.

scrap

August 7, 2025
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a shoebox contains what was on the dining room table in a year-plus accumulation

not the bottle caps nor burrito wrappers nor anything else that would be considered “trash”

rather the shoebox contains what might be a regrettable loss if discarded

there are many business cards with appointment reminders and receipts and addresses of good friends and incomplete poems and illustrations on index cards

and the owner of the dining room table, the sole resident of the apartment, applauds this baby step towards a sane conductance of his daily life

but knows he has merely checked in at base camp for a climb of mount kilimanjaro

but it’s something