What Happens When the Electricity Goes Off At the Brain Warehouse   Saturday, July 18, 2020


what happens when the electricity goes out at the brain warehouse

it seems very clear
to me
when I read my e-mail
in the morning
that there is a warehouse
probably in a corner
of a dark alley
in Silicon Valley,
where people store
their brains
while on the internet

there is no other explanation
that I can think of
for the stupid things
otherwise intelligent people

this morning
I learned, for example,
that the Democrats are hosting
a four-hour Muslim prayer session
at their convention, and, holy shit, not only that
but that they denied an urgent plea
from a biggly-wiggly Catholic
to pray at the convention
and maybe
save their souls
from the sin of excessive

can you imagine
such a thing in these great
United States of this great America
on this great North American continent
where the deer and antelope play
and brown people pick asparagus and then,
by god, go home, and where Muslimite
people are not allowed unless
they bring at least
one barrel of
with them as they cross the desert sand
to our green and verdant
America the beautimus and free,
except for things conducive to living which
are not now free and have not been
for a very long

left in those warehouse-stored brains,
the first rule of a spotting lie -
if someone you don’t know whispers
in your ear
something entirely unbelievable,
you should probably
not take it to the bank
and try to cash

or maybe that’s the problem -
people these days
just seem so eager
to believe
really dumb things
you have to think maybe
they just left
their brains in that warehouse
after the electricity
went off
and the refrigeration didn't
and all the brains stored inside
turned into a runny, gooey, slushy
sea of undemanding

Here and Now
What Happens When the Electricity Goes Off At the Brain Warehouse 


what happens when the electricity goes off at the brain warehouse 
games of the high and flighty 
my mean motor-scooter 
the Buddha’s dog 
4 a.m. 

David Rivard 

Change My Evil Ways 


the poet and the robot storage facility 
4 reasons why the sun shines brighter today 
an incomplete series 

Lily Brown 

Cloud on Mountain 
Morning, the Poem Is Dead 


naming names 
walking my cat on the morning of December 2nd 

Judith Barrington

My Young Girls Like to Ride Bareback

Marilyn Hacker 



luck of the draw 
the cutting room floor 
pleasant greetings 


games of the high and flighty

not horses,
eyes bulging with wild, equine intent,
nose dripping
not rabbits,
gray streaking,
low to the ground,
ears flowing back
like racing stripes, not man
racing, neck cords
like ropes,
legs a vision

but birds,
blackbirds, I think,
(hard to tell in the morning dark)
that swoop and swirl, turn
and circle in tight formation,
joined by smaller birds,
who swoop and swirl and circle and turn
with the big birds,
all pushing, pushing, pushing
like the horse
like the rabbit
like the human athlete,
against gravity
against inertia, against
the ground below

it must be play,
a game,
this avian intensity for a
chase, or a race
to the front of the flying cloud,
wings pushing pushing pushing
against the cool morning

I think of my son
when he was very young, active play
like a narcotic pushing him
faster and faster,
unwilling, unable, to stop
until in full sweat exhausted
he fell in a heap
as hard as he played

like the birds,
game over, the race’s winner
unnamed as all perch, wings flapping at first
for balance,
on an electric line three levels deep,
large and small in three lines,
one above the other,
a constantly shifting line as one bird
after another shifts
to a higher line, to a better spot
on the same line, is this the winner’s circle
lining up, I don’t know as more birds,
large and small who didn’t race
join the power-line confab,
finding place between the perched
contestants, until all are settled
and a morning chorus
disharmonious, sparkle song
of the smaller birds,
against the cawing counterpoint
of the larger birds, volume swelling,
swirling, swooping and shifting,

birds on a line
against a just-bright sky…

another game
to wake the morning

A story of innocence presumed. I don't know if the four lines at the beginning are mine or a quote whose source I don't remember.

my mean motor-scooter

not all innocents
are virgins;
some are just really good
at looking surprised

I had a motor scooter when I was about twelve, a Cushman, maybe, or some other brand no one’s ever heard of since 1953, very old, and, like most of what I had, something my father had found junked somewhere and put back into running order, so to speak.

It had a long metal cover over the motor and rear wheels which, with the front made the scooter about as long as a modern compact car. The paint on the cover was old and scratched and some years beyond any identifiable color.

You started the scooter with a rope pull, like a lawn mower, and steered with handle bars, the accelerator on the right handle bar, a twist-thing connected by wire to the motor, my dad’s improvisation, and a brake-squeeze on the left.

I mowed lawns in those days, for a regular group of regular customers and I would tie the lawnmower to the back of the scooter with a rope and pull it to the yards scheduled for mowing - quite a sight, as I remember it now, chugging down the street, beat-up old scooter with a lawnmower trailing behind, a third world type arrangement that would get me arrested on any street in America today.

I rode the scooter wherever I needed to go, convenience trumping embarrassment, except never to school, there being no convenience imaginable that could make up for that level of embarrassment.

In addition to my yard work, also had a regular job at that time, one that I had beginning when I was ten years old, at a tiny corner grocery store a few blocks from our house. It was a couple of hours every weekday, stocking shelves, pulling the rotten potatoes out of the potato bin, sweeping up (and how I came to love the smell of the rosined sawdust I spread on the floor before sweeping), picking up trash in the yard around the store and taking out the garbage.

One day, running a little late, coming in too fast, my brakes weren’t good enough to stop me in time and I ran into the store’s outside wall with a loud crash, gouging out of the wall a foot-square piece of white stucco.

When I went inside, Mr. Spant, the store owner, ask me about the loud noise outside.

“What noise?” I asked, busily whisking dust off the cans on the shelves with an innocent’s single-minded enthusiasm.

I was much better at innocence in those days and the damaged wall was never mentioned.

the Buddha’s dog

my return to sender ticket
some years ago, date
pending, I was, as are most of us,
shocked at the thought
that there is
a returns counter somewhere
where, at a time to be negotiated later,
the earthly essences of me
will be delivered for reprocessing…

to that point,
I had been quite sure
that life as a condition of enjoyment
was a permanent-type benefit
of being young, handsome, and eager
to please; dying being for old
people, which I foresaw I would never be,
the aforementioned essences of me
never to ever be wrinkled or worn


what a hell of thing to find out
in the middle
of a perfectly good life

I have long sought to deal with this
so unwelcome truth of things, and especially
now, when, as foretold, my essences
have become quite wrinkled and worn,
I have looked for models of living
and attitude which might make this passage
more agreeable…

until now,
when the best course
was revealed to me in recent days
as I walked my dog…

my silly dog
who imagines no future
and obsesses only rarely on her vaguely
remembered past

my silly dog
who finds eternity in every moment,
an eternity spent in a moment of sniffing
a blade of grass, in a moment spent searching out a squirrel
high in a tree, finding a moment of foreverness
in an era of belly-scratch, an epoch
in every moment
of her life

my silly dog who will live forever
and never even notice when forever

great teacher…

oh wise and
silly dog

4 a.m.

4 a.m.
the deep and dark
of the night’s blackest

okay, but when it was done
it was done -
a life lesson
not to hang on to a done thing

move on
like I did this morning,
wash face
scratch dog
liberate teeth
from their little glass
dress in the dark and
search the high grass in the
front yard
for the morning paper
that isn’t there yet…

the Sunday paper,
not Sunday
for those, including
the newspaper carrier,
who went to sleep
on Saturday
and haven’t awaken yet
to Sunday

again my powers
over universal mechanics
of making the world conform
to my schedule

sitting at the diner
having breakfast,
a table of police officers
next over from mine

in the denial of the universal order
and its
to goodness and good sense -
they are relaxed
about the crazy calls
they got tonight,
like the
naked woman
on the interstate overpass
trying to get change
for a quarter
from everyone who passed

at ease at
4 a.m.,
shift change just around the corner,
only an hour
they can go home
and slip into a warm and comfortable
bed with their warm and comfortable wives
or girlfriends or boyfriends,
but their radio, the ever-present menace
to their sense of
well-being, sits between them,
comes to life
like a snake uncoiling
from a sunny
and a dispatcher,
a soft feminine voice,
says “garble garble,”
police code
for saddle up troops
and all four officers jump up
and head for the door,
their holsters
as they hurry out,
checking for the security
of the thick plastic grip on the
blue steel pistol
that rides there, adjusting the belt
that carries it and all the other tools
of their trade, all hanging
on their hips,
checking the tool box
as they quickly walk,
making sure they didn’t forget
reassuring themselves
that they didn’t
leave anything important
on the table
because they know
there’s still time before
shift change
to kill or be killed
even as the coffee, still warm,
sours in their


got my spiff
on today,
not a lot, but a bit,
socks match,
shirttail in…

having lunch with
some other old timers
who remember when spiff
was us

we remember

like those Aztec
they just uncovered where
artist and priests and calendar makers
did their work, telling their stories,
studying the stars, counting
all the days to come and gone,
all in living colors, still, alive still
in all their color and
against all the odds in their damp jungle…

they had some pretty damn-good
spiff, themselves - setting aside
the virgin sacrifice part of the

those of us gathered today remember
our own
lost places,
our caves where good magic
prevailed, when loyal,
brave and true
was our stock in trade…

but that was before
the virgin sacrifice
took over the business

now we just get ourselves a little
once a year,
have lunch, and remember,
we’re the only ones
who do

This is a poem by David Rivard, from his book, Wise Poison. The book, Winner of the 1996 James Laughlin Award of the Academy of American Poetry, was published Graywolf Press. 

At the time the book was published, Rivard taught at Tuffs University and in the M.F.A. in Writing Program at Vermont College.

Change My Evil Ways

Some days it is my one wish to live
lone, nameless, unfashionable,
a drifter or unemployed alien.
But that day the movie was over.
I found myself walking
in Cambridge, & on the Common
there were some conga players, as well as the guys
with xylophones, with fingerpianos & tambourines.
Have you ever seen minnows flopping
from shallow to shallow, doing somersaults?
The drummers' hands were pale fish
like guppies thrashing light in a clear plastic bag,
as blurred as children careening around
lawn sprinklers in the careening mercuric blue dusk of August.
Dulse wavering! Hair shook out while somebody dances.
Some days it isn't a life alone I need
but one that supplies the luxury
of forgiveness. It was a day like that,
luckily, Past the tobacconist,
a kid sang his song about changing
my evil ways, & strummed
a three-chord blues, plugged into a boom box
that lay at his side like a wolfhound.
And I put my ear to his snout,
and - a little
cautious at firsts - I began to listen

the poet and the robot storage facility

it is a large
mostly empty space,
cool, brightly lit,
in the McDonald sense
of mostly clean and plastic,
but a visual and aural
desert, like an old time
bus station
with all the life bled out,
the people, the children crying,
pin ball machines clattering,
public address announcements
of times and places, some known,
some spice for imagination,
all that life
bled out, banished,
a 25th century depot
instead, a place
for storing defective robots,
white plastic, mute
and non-functioning, any
attempt to present
a human presence wiped
bright and antiseptic…

I am an eavesdropper,
a people watcher…

and there is nothing here to see,
nothing to hear,
no stories half-heard,
extrapolated in the mind of the poet
to satisfactory
fantasy, the mystery
of humanity laid out to study,
to enjoy, to celebrate
by a discriminate

there is nothing here
to feed me

there is nothing here
to move me

there is nothing here
to wake
my muse, my creative
hanging on a tipping balance…

so I must move
before I find myself
setting out
on some long and desperate
to become an
tax attorney
or possibly a salesman,
door to door,
pushing vacuum cleaners,
to housewives
with hairy legs and baby food stains
on their sweat shirts and diaper rash
on their fingers,
selling hard,
spreading dirt on carpets to show
the power
of my rug-a-matic magic
sucking machine,
or maybe,
and this, at least
would get me out in the fresh
country air,
harvesters and such
to farmers in gimme caps
and overalls
and thick-soled work boots
wanting to try out their Grateful Dead
CDs in the air conditioned
cab of a $200,000,
sixteen row John Deere mega-tractor built to crawl
across a field like a giant prehistoric
yellow and green
stirring up the dust,
extruding food out of its
for our kitchens
and our Caesar salads
and peanut butter sandwiches…

this could be my future
if I don’t find
to write my poems
because the longer I stay
in this robot-storage
the better the vacuum
and farm-fresh air
is beginning to seem to me…


four reasons why the sun shines brighter today



muscle-man and tiny-woman
are back
with her brother (as I learned
from previous observation)…

they take such pleasure 
in ordering their breakfast,
such joy, such
anticipation, it is a pleasure
to watch,
to experience the harmonious flow
of their contrary 


a mother 
eats her scrambled eggs
while holding 
a sleeping child,
a boy,
in her lap

so jealous
I am
of that boy


father and son
giant pancakes,
running giant
round pancakes, hanging
over the edges
of their square

I smell the pancakes
all the way across
the room
and am jealous of them
as well


a soldier,
a black man,
eats breakfast
with a white woman,
holding hands
as they talk and eat…

a lynching offense
in parts of Texas and the South
in my lifetime…

despite all 
the ugly and low-down
I might see the rest of the day,
another reason here
and now to welcome
a brighter

I love this picture. It is not mine. I don' know whose it is, but I offer my sincerest appreciation for allowing me to steal it for here.


an incomplete series

on High Street
in the Curious part of town


very large man
with a tiny laugh,
tee hee
he says as he passes


around and around
the block
goes a woman
selling a graduation onion,
she says,
like a priest passing,
ipso facto, pesto pico,
look at my plump

her daughter
until dark,
then her husband
like a great walrus,
in an overcoat that drags


three young woman
such good friends
they announce,
they want to get married
as soon as they decide
who to who
and who a permanent
house guest


a naked
the block

but not
like a man
the block
but like a
might jog
hippty hop
flippity flop
hoppity hip
floppily flip


a lumberjack
and a priest
down the street

shouts the
lumberjack -
shiver mine
says the


shambling old man
totters along.
by his tiny shitzenshisehowershower
on a lease

bristly beast
on teeny
with pink-painted

the old man

Next, I have two short poems by Lily Brown, from her book, Rust or Go Missing

The book was published by the Cleveland State University Poetry Center in 2011. The poet lives in Athens where she is a PhD student at the University of Georgia. She has previously published in numerous poetry journals and has published several chapbooks.

Cloud on Mountain

Cows with both ears
tagged. The pragmatist
ventures a guess.
Man with poem 
in eye sallies
into my face. Each
meeting is new,
each glance corners
different. One stigmata's
a cursing, hoof-hurry away.
Uncertainty's a tattoo
not in my skin.

Morning. The Poem Is Dead

I should take scissors to it,
step skeleton from body, by the hand.
In the hovel of dreams things
touch me and won't.
sheets litter the knees.
Sun slips down a piece of wall.
The lamp's soft shade
thins, pales. The light
develops and it's like this
every morning. I wake with a body
in the sheets. It stains
the eye blacker for the light.

naming names

I am into
the sight, smell,
feel, and taste of things,
not into the naming
of them

even so, I know the slim crescent
hanging low over my neighbor’s fence,
yellow as fresh cream,
is the moon,
and that the bright star beside it
is not really a star, burning bright,
but a planet, reflecting, like the moon,
the sun, giving it’s light at this hour
to my planetary neighbors
on the other side of my life,
well, not actually , the other side, but, this hour,
just a ways down the planetary road
to the east of me, I will get my share of the shining

but that planet,
my son when he was six or so probably
knew which planet it was,
but I don’t,
Jupiter would be my wild guess,
but that would be a guess like guessing
the number of beans in a jar,
except that there aren’t so many planets as beans
in the jar, which means, it is statistical
likelihood that I have a better chance of guessing
the correct planet than landing in a mental dive
on the correct number of beans…

but, beyond that, I don’t know
about the names of most anything…

like you…

I don’t know your name, but that isn’t
stopping me
from talking to you in this missive
as if I did….

faking it, as I do by addressing you
as if I know you,
is a very important part of successful
and productive living

I’m very good at it…

so, Dear Reader,
it’s been a pleasure
speaking with

(Dear Reader,
the only name I need
for you,
Dear Moon,
around whom my poetry planet
no name is required
beyond that,
beyond knowing,
Dear Sun,
around whom
my pale and precious
midnight mirror of the day to come
circumnavigates the black sparkling sky
with me,
illuminating all shadows,
as I seek within my own dark and poetic circles,
those things most important
to me)

walking my cat on the morning of December 2nd.

I walked my cat this morning,
not that I meant to,
but cats happen…

it started a week ago
after Bella
chased off an intruder cat
who was threatening
our front-porch cat, hissing
and eating the food
I had put out…

since then,
front-porch cat
has developed a serious
following along with us
as Bella and I take our morning
walk - the two of us
on one side of the street
while front-porch cat,
observing propriety, walks
quietly on the other side

(also insuring plausible
should we meet up with
a gathering of her feline kind -
who me, I can hear her say,
walking with a dog, never happened,
pure coincidence that we were just going
the same way
at the same time)

obviously a serious
misunderstanding, a mis-reading
of the situation,
as she just happens to be walking
on the same street
as the dog, stopping
to sniff
when the dog stops to sniff,
stopping to scratch
when the dog stops to
scratch, clearly into the same moment
as the dog, a cat moment
in a dog moment and the dog
doesn’t understand it anymore
than I do and cares even less -

though it was difficult
the first couple of days, it
being hard to get anywhere
when the dog stopped every twelve
feet to check the cat’s
relative position,
but she has on this day
at last accepted
that she does not
walk alone, that she has a cat
accompaniment in her morning
aria and so what, though she, too,
will deny any such thing
if mention is made
of it…

(the cat, a feral female,
so that she might
enjoy a more cosmopolitan lifestyle
rather than her previous life
constantly under the eye of horny
Toms, lives on our
front porch, waiting for me
several times a day, displaying
her willingness to accept food
from my hand, tribute to her tire-
less work porch-guarding, and
other than that, we have no
relationship, refusing to be touched
by me -though we do exchange several
meows every morning - so it’s not like
she doesn’t recognize my existence
as part of her world)…

but, let’s face it,
she never followed me around before,
so it has to be all about
her hero, the

not that there’s anything wrong
with that

Next I have two poets from the anthology, Not For the Academy - Lesbian Poets, published by Otherwomen Press Ltd. in 1999.

The first of the two is Judith Barrington, a poet and memoirist. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with her partner of twenty years.

Why Young Girls Like to Ride Bareback

You grasp a clump of man in your left hand,
spring up and fall across her back;
then, pulling on the wiry black hair
which cuts into your palm and fourth finger,
haul yourself up till your right leg
swings across the plump cheek of her hindquarters.

Now you hold her, warm and alive, between your thighs.
In summer, wearing shorts, you feel the dander
of her coat, glossy and dusty at the same time,
greasing up the inside of your calves,
and as she walks, each of your knees in turn
feels the muscle bulge out behind her shoulders.

Trotting's a matter of balance. You bounce around
unable to enter her motion as you will when the trot
breaks and she finally waltzes from to to three time.
Nothing to be done at the trot but grab again at the mane
that feels, though you don't know it yet, like pubic hair,
and straddle her jolting spine with your seat bones

knowing that when the canter comes, you will suddenly
merge - you and that great, that powerful friend:
she, bunching g up behind, rocking across the fulcrum,
exploding forward on the leading leg, and you
digging your seat down into the sway of her back,
your whole body singing: we are one, we are one, we are one.

The second poet from the anthology Marilyn Hacker

Hacker is a poet, translator and critic. Professor Emerita of English at City College of New York and, in addition to numerous other awards, is a previous winner of the National Book Award.


for K.J.

This morning the wind came, shaking the quince tree,
making trouble in the chicken yard.

The attic door blew open, windows slammed their
notebooks and envelopes slid off my worktable.

A poplar separating vineyards whispered over
olive and lavender cotton, two shades of summer brown.

Wind makes my head ache. I long for water
surfaces, light on four different riverbanks,

silver trembling on the edge, a waterfall
come up inside me as I come down to you.

Early in the train station, slow bus back through Monday
     shuttered towns;
nectarines under the poplar, wind in the quince tree.

luck of the draw

not a hint
of what I’m going to write about
this morning,
I content myself with looking out the window
as the sky slowly lights
to start the day…

it’s 7:09 a.m. - death-race
time on the expressway, I10,
if you’re one of the lucky ones,
you’ll make it to work,

if you’re one of the really
lucky ones,
you’ll make it all the way to El Paso,
land of the stink of cheap gas
powering the buses
on the Mexican side of the river,
and on this side, even worse traffic
than here…

if you’re one of the really, really,
really lucky ones,
you’ll make it through El Paso
with your skin intact
and travel on to the mountains,
high, like sharp-faced markers
in the desert, including the Manzanos,
which I hiked across mid-December, 1964,
knee-deep in snow and appreciation
of the quiet of the forests and, crossing the crest,
the beauty of the near, blue sky, sleeping the night
of a million stars, waking to coffee
brewed over an open fire and freeze-dried scrambled eggs,
and C-ration tin-can biscuits, how good was it all
on that bright morning

when I was really, really, incredibly lucky…

meantime, I sit here, lost in other mornings,
watching the day,
fresh-bright and shiny,
and the cars, harassed along by drivers
driving on this new day to fulfil their purpose, varied, lucky or not,
their destiny, hustled along on Interstate-10…

and me, sitting here, doing my job, watching…

thinking, I might have written
a poem today

the cutting room floor 

memory like movies,
not linear, but scene by scene

I remember
looking at a reflection
of myself in a store window
in Houston, January 10, 1966,
waiting for induction
and a bus ride
to basic training in San Antonio,
recognizing the image
in the window
as the last time would I see myself as a civilian
for some years to come…

I don’t remember
taking the oath or getting
on the bus or the several hours
on the bus, but I remember getting off
in San Antonio, lining up
with a scruffy collection of recently former civilians,
greeted, not gently,
by a North Carolina accented Drill Instructor

I remember him tall and thin, intense eyes
under the brim of a hat pulled
low and I remember my new name,
“big’un” he called me, and “big’un” I was
for the next nine weeks…

I remember a ragged march
to our barracks, but nothing else
that day; I remember standing in cold
January rain the next morning, very early,
for breakfast, but I don’t remember breakfast;
I remember standing in line
for haircuts, the shearing of our last civilian vanity,
but I don’t remember the actual cutting;
I remember standing in line to get uniforms,
fatigues in olive drab, khaki 1505s, and dress blues,
a wool overcoat fit for arctic weather, a fatigue coat
my son took to college, a raincoat I still wear
when it rains, a fatigue cap, a cunt cap, a dress hat
to wear with dress blues, but I don't remember
boots, I don't remember socks,
I don't remember shoes...

I remember marching,
everywhere marching, but I don’t remember
where we went; I remember
smoke breaks, “smoke’um if you got’um,”
crumpled cigarettes
pulled from crumpled packages
carried in our socks;
I remember guarding our passage, running ahead
at every street crossing, standing in the intersection
at parade-rest, one arm extended, open palm,
stopping oncoming traffic for our flight to pass (each group
of recruits called a “flight”); but
I don’t remember what crossing guards
like me were called, except that it was something
that sounded much more special than “crossing guard”

I remember running the obstacle course at the end of training,
severe shin splints making a difficult run,
but I remember none of it but the pain
and the Drill Instructor at the end of the course
giving me a thumbs up as I passed;
and I remember, as squad leader, marching my squad
to the parade field for our final graduation
pass before the base commander,
but I don’t
remember marching that final 100 yards
across the field…

I remember the meningitis scare after training,
sleeping January nights in the barracks
with all the windows open;
I remember making three friends during that isolation,
one now dead,
the other two long since lost to the maw of time passing…

out of nine weeks of living,
I remember maybe as much as half a day,
the rest lost to the cutting floor, like all the slow parts
of the run-of-the-mill movie
that has been my life so far, and, as the movie
flickers on to its final hour,
more of it ends on the floor, less and
less of it ever to be seen on the screen
of memory…

just another plain-vanilla “Flubber” of a movie passing,
lucky to ever gross
it’s cost

pleasant greetings

“Pleasant greetings,
earth creature….”

it’s O-five hundred
and I went to bed at
O-1 thirty
and I had to take
the dog out to pee
three times between then
and now and I’m
and this sort of thing
always seems to happen
when I suffer insufficient
my normal snapcracklepop
morning displaced
by encounters of the very
third kind, strange folk,
green-skinned and scaly, smiling
with fearsome teeth
twitchy orange eyes (all eight
of them flittering and jittering
like Mexican jumping beans
in a tea cup, tickling
the crawly backbone of the
great worm of tequila destiny)
and all I want is a cup of coffee,
a jack of joe-juice, and maybe
a danish, “ Oh, I love the Danish,”
says my green friend, eyes
twittering and flittering, “they are
so tasty, with smoked eel on rye,
worth the trip,” he says
as he smiles
with his sharp little fearsome teeth,
twinkling in the morning light
twitching and switching
through the kitchen window,
and I would be very frightened
if I wasn’t sure I was still asleep
and dreaming and I swear I’m never
going to stay up past O ten hundred

and I hear, as the bedroom
door closes,
“Sleep pleasantly,
earth creature, it has been tasty
meeting you this morning”


next comes the commentary:

though usually well hidden,
my poems almost always have
some meaning, some message,
some selection of jams and jellies
of deep philosophy,
some lesson to the world
for better and more moral living...

but, of course,
that's bullshit, any lesson
or message or meaning in my poems
is completely inadvertent, this pitiful claim
of relevance merely an attempt
at this late moment
to obscure the fact that I can think
of no reason for this poem, can find
no message for anyone except maybe me,
a goad to myself
to recognize my limitations,
to swear a promise to myself
that I am never going
to stay up past 0 nine hundred
no matter
how great the promise
of a championship-level basketball game,
a big boy game,

I appreciate hearing from readers. Although they may not appear here, your comment,, if you choose to make them is available to me. So feel free to pass on any reaction, comments, or opinions by clicking on the "comment" button below.

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces 

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time


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Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
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Poetry and Poets in Rags
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