Everything different now.  Everything.


No time for long paragraphs, or essays, no anaconda-like epistles.  Nothing like that, any of that.

Poetry will solve this.  Or greatly help.

Attacked.  Answer.  But first, MAP.

All days and eyes, stares and where’s – the first walk, then last.

Some see themselves as so elevated and virtuous, RIGHT.  Nothing I can do about that.  I don’t seek to do anything about anything.

Only aim – happiness.  When will I land.  When will I walk down the steps and onto new tierra?

Going back to Mr. Sullivan’s class, or Gillian Conoley’s – verse.  MUSIC.  Thinking of my kids, always… writing with them.

Anger, not assisting.  Doesn’t finish the line, doesn’t help Mike Madigan with rime or time or deciphering signs.  Calm… quiet.  Listening to Tycho, separating.  No coffee, no sparkling water, no wine.  Just me and this Nook.  Collect.  Like Mark said—  No repeating what he said.  I know where the peak is, what the air’s notes communicate.


Step away from the computer I tell SELF.

SELF responds no, orders me to write more poetry.  I just want to listen to this track, deport myself to Paris, leave all this caustic horror.



Zen, distance, perception.  Flying further into philosophy Dad taught me, long ago.  What I read as an undergrad and for my Master’s…. The perception of Carroll, the DEATH of the above world’s language for the below.

Night, and the day slows.  Further from humans, other figures and crossings.  Thinking of Sedaris, may watch his class later.  In fact I absolutely will… and write with ink, not these goddamn keys.

Staring at the headset Sonic gave me.  So thankful for the company and the AE opportunity.  How some tried to talk me out of joining the Sonic world – saying I should stay full-time in the wine world ‘cause it allows me to be an adjunct.


Hope that voice never becomes a dominant or consultative voice for students.  Oh my god…


Late verses.  Missing my kids.  Everything will be conveniently interpreted.  I’ve accepted that.  Devils want me to be weakened, but I’m only enlivened and empowered, encouraged and emboldened.

I think about the nights in the hospital… what I went through… what my FAMILY went through.  Current struggles and skirmishes are nothing significant.  Others speaking for others is comical.


Listening to Mr. Sedaris, and Ms. Lawson, Ms. Irby…. Past authors, Hem…. The current is to be observed and studied.

Laundry… and thoughts, the sound of the water, sight of the soap.  The olympics on TV… I am in no way interested.  I’m sure that will be sighted.  I’m chewing gum, and of course that incites a gripe.

The feeling of having nothing to lose and that everything is a comic page in the newspaper right in front of you but not with so much color and obvious animation, relieving.

Okay… now I feel better.

Oh shit… laundry.  Why does it keep on being LAUNDRY?  This is a trivial and humorous grievance, which is exactly why I’m writing it.  Do you get that?  NO?  Okay, I know… writing it anyway.  A man complains about laundry.  Mike Madigan, no less.  SHOCKER TO ALL.

Listening to interviews with favorite authors, looking at pictures of my babies… can hear their voices, Jack and Emma, and Henry as much as he can talk.

I should be quiet, I know… mute.  Mannequin, stoic, motionless.  And for what.  I’m Hem right now, in the café, see the lady with the dark hair, me walking streets… be there soon, I’m sure.  No… I PROMISE.