Thursday, April 23, 2015

Last Winning People Told Me to Sit on the Urinal

It was my first time in Dietles in two years this past Monday night, they've now a red-eye urinal, fuck me. There were as many people not there as were not there the last time I was there. Cold Yuengling from a fresh keg on tap, motherfuckers, is not nectar but doesn't suck.

All my metaphors are political. Learning to come I knew only bones and cards and pastel phallic Parcheesi pieces. My concept of victory crushes or is smashed. Hexagons. Laminated cardboard armies.

I'm told what to do regarding me, you telling me what to do as result of my telling you what to do, is protected speech, you telling me what to do, me telling you no not.

This past Friday, I said to my friend, we drove past an Islamic Center is Ann Arbor just at the call for midday prayers and at the entrance two assholes and their imaginary friend Jesus waived placards that read Mohammed Is Dead! at the arriving Muslims and my right hand flew out the window, all fingers but the middle clenched and... I pulled my arm into the window. Why give the fuckers the satisfaction of my hate? That's very unlike you, he said. Yup, I said, and got up to piss, and pissed out the Yuengling and, red-eyed by the urinal, needn't flush.


John Ashbery

The man across the street seems happy,
or pleased. Sometimes a porter evades the grounds.
After you play a lot with the military
you are my own best customer.

I’ve done five of that.
Make my halloween. Ask me not to say it.
The old man wants to see you — now.
That’s all right, but find your own.
Do you want to stop using these?

Last winning people told me to sit on the urinal.
Do not put on others what you can put on yourself.
How to be in the city my loved one.
Men in underwear    ...    A biography field
like where we live in the mountains,

a falling. Yes I know you have.
Troves of merchandise, you know, “boomer buzz.”
Hillbilly sculptures of the outside.
(They won’t see anybody.)


  1. a) speaking of interactions with locals in red-state maryland, as you do in your previous posting, reminds me of this -

    Here's a Southern joke about yankees I heard twenty-five years ago (and twarn't new then, neither). What's the difference between a yankee and a damn yankee? A yankee comes down, looks around, and goes home; a damn yankee don't go home soon enough.

    I did go home, four years later - not soon enough, obviously.

    b) and speaking of telling people what to do, today i ordered from a previously owned copy of karen armstrong's book twelve steps to a compassionate life

    although 'twelve steps' are specified, they are not the same twelve steps as alcoholics anonymous and kindred groups use

    judy lee trautman's 8 page summary of armstrong's book is at