December 27


” There’s a…”

“What?” Bill asked before I could finish. I hate that.

“I heard there’s a phone number you can call. You remember that old TV show, Diff’rent Strokes? There’s a…”

“I remember it. What?”

“There’s a telephone number that you can call, and when you call it you can hear the kids from that show crying.”

Bill laughed and scratched his head.


“Yeah. And if you listen long enough to it, you eventually realise that you can hear their dad, their dad in the show, lauging, in the background.”

“That Drummond?”

“Yeah, Mr Drummond. You can hear him laughing, while they cry.”

Bill scratched his head and looked at his fingernails afterwards.—-

December 27

Standing Still and Shaking My Fists (2nd taste)

1. Lo Único Que Hace es Joder
So he has this one
track mind and he
talks really fast.

I can barely keep
up with the syllables.

Keep it simple, I said.

He likes triangle math
problems and
having cyber sex with
ambiguously aged girls.

But whatever.

_____ ________ is good with his
hands but better with his

He likes to fuck rough
and talk really fast.

These words just fall
out from behind his teeth,
out of his lips and into my
ear and I’m
breathless under his weight
but it feels so fucking good.

I have a fleeting passion for the things that I do.
It comes and goes in fits. I just want to learn the guitar,
and for him to be happy.
I am fed up of hearing about carbon footprints.
My mouth tastes like an ashtray and no amount
of toothpaste or mouthwash or floss is taking it away.

I’ll just have another cigarette.

The beats and harmonies remind me of you.
Like the time we fell in love for fun and
tried counting the number of pebbles on the beach.


I collected fleece from wire fences and twisted it to
make it strong. My woolen bracelet, I wore that thing for days.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I’m glad we’re
not talking and that we’re not in love.

Underline the letters in the newspaper to spell your
name a thousand times and you’ll think it’s a sign.

Foolish optimism?

You’re waiting to weigh in,
and you’re well below par.
I’m not the first to point this out, am I?
First middle heavy-heart, then your own despair.
You are the I in comparison.
I’ll open another bottle, it’s going to get messy tonight.

December 27

Existential Destinesia

Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten what you came there for,
only to realize a few moments later
that it must not be that important if you can’t even remember?
Well, what did you do?
You left the room, of course.

In retrospect,
that’s an apt description of my birth & subsequent life.

I walked into this room and forgot what I came here for,
only to realize a few decades later
that it must not be that important if I can’t even remember.
So, what will I do?
I’ll leave the room, of course.

December 27

The Non-Descript Man

Not so long ago it was often the case that nondescript men would stand for hours and sometimes even days ringing the doorbells of their own homes trying to get inside, while crowds outside passed by watching and wondering why, but otherwise paying little attention to the matter save for the occasional comment, “Did you try the doorknob?”

And our nondescript man was just the sort of nondescript man described above. He excelled at nothing. He held no grand features that set him apart from any other man of his time or anyone else on the bustling street. Except, of course, for the fact that he stood endlessly ringing his own doorbell and was holding a large bag of buttons he had purchased from one of the faceless girls at the market who sold buttons because the Pell grant had yet to be invented.

“Did you try the knob?” yelled a passerby.

Of course I have, winced the man, not having actually tried it, but feeling a bit torn at attempting the obvious with so many people now gathering to judge his every move.

And the commotion of the crowd and the repeated bell ringing and the few damns thrown out to explicate his condition awoke a small, foreign-looking, talking animal that was sleeping in a nearby trash bin. His eyes popped out clear and bright from his furry skull like a question about things going on around him might be on his mind.

“Is there some sort of problem?” asked the little animal as he knocked away the half cracked egg shell from his head that kind of looked like a hat because his head was so small, but which was really a speck of the garbage he’d been sleeping under.

“Well, I think it’s quite obvious that I’m standing on the street, trying to get into my house, but failing to do so because of this much locked door”, said the man.

Having had this conversation so many times before in days past, it took the man several minutes to notice that he was talking to a small, foreign-looking, talking animal, who might be very capable of granting wishes.

“Oh my! Sweet Lordy! Little animals like yourself can’t talk. Are you the devil? Did I, at some point during the day, die and miss that fact”, the man asked feeling for his wallet to check if he were dead.

“Not at all. Do you feel you’ve done something wrong? Some bit of guilt you might like to get off your conscience?” said the little animal.

“Well, nothing I’d discuss with a little talking animal who lives in people’s garbage cans. So, if you’re not the devil then go! Eat out of somebody else’s trash.

“But don’t you want to get into your house?” ask the animal.

“Absolutely. Without question. You’ve hit the nail right on the head. I’m on the street. I want to be inside” said the man.

“It doesn’t seem so difficult to me” said the animal.

“Well, of course not. You’re some kind of magical wish granting animal that grants wishes and can do magic. So, I’m sure this whole situation seems quite easy to you. With all your magic. And wish granting” said the man.

The little animal rolled its eyes at its own incredible wish granting abilities.

“Yes, I am ever so magical. If you’ll just hand me the bag of buttons you hold, I shall show you the amazing wonders I possess”, said the animal.

“So, it’s like a trade? I give you some buttons, and I get…” asked the man stymied at just what in the deal for him.

“Inside the house! Hand me the damn buttons, and you get in the house!” said the little animal.

“Really? That seems a bit of a pushy stance for someone living in a garbage can” said the man.

The little animal was deeply hurt by the comments on his personal hygiene and wanted to explain that he’d only been nestling there because someone had thrown out a very nice warm jacket and that small animals were always drawn to nestling places that were jacket based during the depths of winter.

But before the little animal had a chance to finish, the man thrust out the bag of buttons, because after so many hours of standing and ringing his own bell, he needed to use his own bathroom and ceased to care for the content and/or usage of the bag which he possessed.
“Here!” yelled the man thrusting out the button bag to the little animal.

And there in his palm, where the button bag once lay, the non-descript man saw he was holding the keys to his front door.

“It’s magic” he yelled loudly at the passing crowed, who paid little or no attention because people were always yelling something or the other was magic in those days. And he opened the door and entered to see his wife standing firmly in the entryway, tapping her foot and asking if he’d bought the buttons she’d sent him out for so many long hours ago.

As the little animal scurried away, he heard a small argument ensue.