Alice has a yeast rash. Molly said something acidic, like apple cider vinegar in her bath water, the internet sez yogurt, the pediatrician called me back to recommend athlete’s foot cream, Alice’s daycare provider recommended a homeopath in Albany whom “Cora’s mother loves”.

News used to travel small
if the mayor of your little town was corrupt
the radius was limited 

then the internet hit & everyone knew everything

 but there was no way to know it all
so it became small again. 

Elliot tells me about bandwidth restrictions on grandfathered cell phone plans, the NSA, recent studies on turmeric, how a man three block away let his 2 year old daughter name their cat Nouga. Did she mean Nougat? No she insisted, she meant Nouga.

I tell him about sexism in the gaming industry, the Berkeley soda tax, #goatober, Ferguson, how a farmer called me from Hawaii & told me the only mill there has been shut down.

We both shuttle through the current
& surface
holding handfuls of two different oceans

each with our own little world puddling at our feet.

Even with big news we hold different pieces
He breaks Ebola to me
I break Texas
He breaks “the second nurse in Spain”
Molly, who live in the boonies visits & informs us that they’ve shipped the first nurse
to Georgia “because Texas fucked up so royally”
and that’s news to us.

There’s a children’s book, I barely skimmed yesterday while Alice bansheed all through the library, called “We’re In a Book!” where the two characters, a pig & chicken, realize they are in a book so they can make the reader read all sorts of outrageous things out loud like BANANAS! In all caps exclamation> that’s as far as I got. It made me laugh for a moment & then grow nervous & try
to squirm
out of the current & find that I couldn’t.

Trevor posts an article on Facebook about the first nurse getting on a cruise ship. I post a picture of Alice reposted from Instagram. And on Twitter I retweet some crazy essay I barely skimmed about Kubric, and on Tumblr I just heart a bunch of GIFS (Elliot breaks: it’s pronounced like Jif peanut butter with a G but I still say it as gift without the T) but in this poem

I’m caught in a net
as I will be
on whatever platform I choose to post this.

While walking home we saw Nouga just as Elliot described her. And the world got big & small again as a wavelength or a sound wave
or a sine wave or an omen gets
on meeting a kindred soul.

Poems used to travel small
if the bard of your little town was on fire
the immediate radius was hot but limited 

then the printing press hit & everyone could conceivably read everything

but there was no way to read it all
so it became small again. 

We’ve been applying coconut oil to Alice’s rash. I tried putting powdered probiotics on it but she was still damp from her bath & it got all clumpy & she started fussing & I said
I said
does that feel funny?
And she made a grimace and she repeated
funny & whimpered.

She said fuuuuunnnnny & squirmed.

Do you know how fucked up that is? Trying to pull sticky little bits of gummed up powder off of your daughter’s genitals while she cries & says “funny”?
Can you read that out loud?

No really, go back & read that last stanza out loud.
We’re in a book! No. We’re in a poem. 

Today she said hot. Hot. While whining. Then FUNNNNY. While touching her crotch.

Can you memorize this & recite it to your neighbor? Why bother?

There’s no bloodshed. No smearing our faces with war paint. No armies. No allegiances. Not even a stance.

I was reading today about how during grape harvest the yeast is thick on the skin of grapes & the bees bring it back to the hive & it lives in the intestines of the queen until she passes it on to her progeny. And then those armies of bees carry that same strain of yeast back out into the world.

It’s clinging to your hind legs.

We’re in a poem. And it is one among many
that spent time in the 
intestines of the same queen.

If you think that Charles Olson, Walt Whitman, Louis Zukofsky, Jack Spicer, George Oppen, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Creeley,

never had a diaper rash their mother fretted over, you’re kidding yourself. 

It’s clinging to your hind legs.

"Like molecular armies the word bits make it to the surface, they find vertical or horizontal support. They climb and rise. Or else they burrow down and itch for the mineral attachment. They hum in light, purr in the dark. They make mastic movements, independent of stimulus location. Atop safe carriers they tread the waters. They find the side entrance and evade the larger guards. They clasp the underside. They find release off the cornice. They click and jerk. They sense the host chemical and drop straight down. They bear the strange neighbor, as they are also borne. They move in circles that then move past their own lines. They fuse with cousins. At first glance dull and microbial, as focus and color gain in effect they are revealed to have the spirit of children in a playground. They establish a viable disequilibrium with trellis, lattice, casement. They factor. They surface. They sink, become part of slippery bottoms. They hear voices and bells. They twine around dowels, integers of shaded backyard afternoons. They savor excrescence and disarrange symmetries. They infect AND cauterize. They go toward the quantum fold. They welcome all singularities into the grid. They un-mesh and quiver at the micro-apocalyptic moment. They become toxic as an alternative to distillation. They have truck with gaily-sparkling chunks. They crease along coordinates yet to be made clear. They go outside, they ride on speckled winds. They worry the address with gnat-like interference. They tighten at modulation’s first brush. In murk lit by angled setting suns they are part of the swaying world the eye sees against submerged pilings. They grasp at nutrients. They contract to pour motion. They inhere recklessly, like hugging a curve. Their labors are skittish but finally adhesive. They form colander-like catches, they send tendrils out into the abyss. They get THERE on spring-loaded limbs. They singe for warmth. They sidle over to the challenge. They reduce AND over-code. They enter with recently-extruded keys."

— George Albon, from Aspiration


After soaring for a time we preened

And although our engines ticked

a somewhat solid beat

our pants were falling down


I don’t know why I’m protesting


I can’t believe I’m doing what I’m doing

For what I’m earning

We talked to the baby like she was the cat

And then

When the baby surpassed such conversation

We talked to the cat

Like he was the baby

Nudging him to “go play”

With the ferals

That lived in the back shed

Across the street

Before the house in-front was foreclosed-on & flipped & sold to a podiatrist/ divorced dad with part-time custody of two boys

& the back shed was torn down

& the ferals were left to sleep

who knows where


the crazy cat ladies

showed up & dumped

bowls of food two times a week in the bushes

and our cat grew fatter

eating their food.

Tags: poem meng




Here’s a jam to end #TBT! Jimmy as Jim Morrison singing the Reading Rainbow theme song


I was happy in August. That doesn’t mean I was happy.
I was happy. Who wouldn’t be happy with summer
shaking out its great golden sheets day after day. I had
many days to myself. What a relief.

In July I was with someone all the time. Around the
clock. We worked like dogs. Do dogs work?…

Me too.


The city of Berkeley
Is replacing the street lights
With LED lights
Slowly but surely
I can no longer locate my heart.
They’ve done our block
so tree shadows
where the leaves let the light thru
now pixelate that
it’s a tinsel
a clot
of jangled everywhere
where it once beat
is a…

Poems by yours truly erre day this week at Throg Sludge.


a major
a career path
a path
a car
a route
choose a sandwich
from the sandwich board
of possible sandwiches
choose a side
of bacon or sausage
or sub in fruit
choose to call in sick
or take a personal day
or claim jury duty
choose the cheapest option
of insurance offered

my brother would like…


Let’s start from the end.

Bend it like Beck. Grass stain our pantsuits.

Sing it while we wash windows.

Mix sugar in with our meds.

Hark! Birds are tying bows in my hair! Ahem.

Or did I mean Amen?

If there’s no ashtray

There’s no consolidated pile of regret.
Limbo has just as many bad connotations

But what about the party game

Where you dance below an ever lower stick?

Why aren’t we doing that more often?

Blah blah blah

The sky

the world

the job

the social scene sink hole

even the sink

a problem

because it needs to be cleaned.

Didn’t mean to a downer



But I’ve arranged a meeting between

Mr. Brown & Mr. Black who came back

And Mr. Brown

Who rides around town in a coffin,

And I think you’ll be pleased to know:

We’re bringing limbo back!

Oh I don’t know. Let’s just get old.

It’s so beyond belief
It’s catching.



(via aka14kgold)


party time

(Source: snerky, via supergalaxy)