I before O, U!

Episode 9 in the Abject Alphabet is brought to you by the letter I.

I is for injury, for interloper, for infatuation, for imagination.
For some impossible thing. For inspiration,

I is my personal pronoun, except when
I’m plural, which has been happening a lot lately, CGI or no CGI.

I is for Indigenous, independent and ingenious.
I is for India, infidel, for Icarus in flight. For investigate.

I is for ignorance when there is nothing left to know.
Ibsen gone for a walk, stroking his beard.

I is for immune, for icon, for insane,
I is for incarcerate, incinerate, inappropriate

I is for idea. As in “what’s the big.”
I is for indiscriminate like my posts from now on

Today is September 21, 2022. I’m making notes
for my GP. Happy to have one that calls me Dear


Never been heard or sceened
before I have seen it. Awe shucks,
almost heard it, but I’m not wearing
my hearing aids. Nearly caught
a glimpse but I’m not wearing
my looking glasses, so lie to me instead.

I’ll believe you.

I is for “IN THE TIME ZONE” Episode 9 when we catch up to the ABJECT ALPHABET, but right now it’s in front of U and Oh, VOWELS on the run.


Can’t get this can’t have that
All I get is pain in no time flat.
Nobody knows my racing thoughts
my Beck inventory, no cartilage in stock.

Can’t get this can’t have that
all’s I got is this pain in no time flat
my spine and my shoulders my thumbs
my fingers my hips my knees my ankle

one left is the right for the accelerator oedipal
I sit in my mother’s lap driving she lets me
hold the wheel, Camus relives his childhood
a passenger in 1960, there is nothing he can do
overpowered Facel Vega loses the road
slams into a tree his auto-fiction complete

Nobody to know my racing thoughts
about my Beckett inventory. Yes, I’ve got
no cartilage in stock, this pain all
I own in no time flat I can get into that.



I is for in-service, intimidate, invisible, ink, yeah you
I can’t sign what you can’t see and I am going going gone.
I is for intubate, Intubate, a hose down my throat to suck out the food trying to kill me.




He was the kind of guy who created motion artifacts during his MRI by falling asleep and snoring in the machine.
He was the kind of guy who learned to fear his food when it nearly choked him to death confronting respiratory depression.
He was the kind of guy who preferred to sleep in bed. There was still plenty of time for sex.
He was the kind of guy that would make a big noise when he crashed out of bed.He was easily confused, having more shoes than feet to wear them on.
He was the kind of guy several months behind on his Made-for-Grandpa home calendar.
He was the kind of guy who regretted telling his insurance agent he had smoked one cigarette in his life, 
burning down the house. He supposed they thought him insane because he laughed
when his feet hove into view under his belly. Little did they know he had them right where he wanted them.
He was the kind of guy who understood Berryman’s kind of guy with no Inner Resources.




A place to hang my gray fedora

Jazz:    A push against the dark, making it up as you go along looking for the truth blowing hot and cool  in a room full of smoke and action under the tables thinking about something else sunlight or suicide fingering your horn.

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