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about me
poet, technologist, cynic, father of five, child of chaos, punker, prankster, patriot, punster, leftist, latino, japanophile, audiophile, beer drinker, quiche eater, dog walker, soft talker, deep thinker, shallow sleeper, introvert, covert operative in a parallel universe.

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* m a y s t a r *

  • September 2004
  • October 2004
  • November 2004
  • December 2004
  • January 2005
  • February 2005
  • March 2005
  • April 2005
  • May 2005
  • June 2005
  • July 2005
  • August 2005
  • September 2005
  • October 2005
  • November 2005
  • December 2005
  • January 2006
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  • March 2006
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  • January 2007
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  • May 2008
  • June 2008
  • July 2008
  • August 2008
  • September 2008
  • October 2008
  • November 2008
  • December 2008
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  • May 2010
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  • July 2010
  • August 2010
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  • November 2010
  • December 2010
  • January 2011
  • February 2011
  • March 2011
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  • May 2011
  • June 2011
  • July 2011
  • August 2011
  • September 2011
  • October 2011
  • November 2011
  • December 2011
  • March 2012
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  • May 2012
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  • August 2012
  • April 2013
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  • August 2013
  • September 2013
  • October 2013
  • February 2014
  • March 2014
  • April 2014
  • August 2014
  • March 2015

    extra special bitter
    hops are bitter. life is bitter. coincidence?

    Tuesday, November 29, 2005


    at 30,000 feet —
    a baby screams


    Monday, November 28, 2005

    holidays over

    holidays over —
    a pile
    of unsplit firewood


    is this it?

    “How can you call it a blog if nothing in it is real?”
    “It’s all real. Not all of it is reality.”


    “What’s the difference?”
    “The words and sentiments are real; the situations are fictitious.
    Even this one.”

    “You’re playing with me.”


    Sunday, November 27, 2005

    November twilight

    November twilight —
    a pair of socks
    my son left behind


    Saturday, November 26, 2005

    waiting at the airport

    waiting at the airport
    my daughter and I
    compare wedding rings


    Friday, November 25, 2005

    black ice

    black ice —
    without grandpa’s laugh


    Thursday, November 24, 2005

    Thanksgiving night

    Thanksgiving night —
    everyone thanks me
    for walking the dog


    straining beneath the weight

    straining beneath the weight
    of all this snow —
    dogwood blossoms

    straining beneath the weight
    of all this snow —
    my back


    Wednesday, November 23, 2005

    butterfly party

    “I think I’m drunk enough to drive you home now.”
    “Okay. Great.”
    She was more drunk than I was. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

    Just then, a hulking figure hurried toward us. I recognized him as someone who might have shot down my kite with a slingshot in the third grade. Ignoring me, he addressed my new best friend.

    “I thought you were coming home with me.”

    She couldn’t speak, so I did.

    “Dude, are you sure you’re drunk enough to drive?”
    “I haven’t had a drop. I’m a designated driver.”

    What a loser! My hero!

    “That’s perfect. She won’t remember a thing, and you’ll remember everything. She’s all yours, chief.”

    I handed him the keys, pivoting away just in time to miss the arc of vomit that streamed from her mouth.


    holiday driving

    holiday driving —
    an open road map passes me
    doing 75


    Tuesday, November 22, 2005

    traffic jam

    traffic jam —
    a scratch
    on my favorite CD


    Monday, November 21, 2005


    stars —
    the sound
    of bare branches


    Sunday, November 20, 2005

    November chill

    November chill —
    shredded grocery bags
    hanging in a tree


    Saturday, November 19, 2005

    killer frost

    killer frost —
    the snap
    of a mouse trap


    Friday, November 18, 2005

    friday night

    friday night —
    I board the wrong train
    and don’t care


    Thursday, November 17, 2005

    Davis Square

    waiting for the Red Line I read a poem carved into the brick platform.
    a woman’s voice takes me by surprise.

    “I’ve been to that factory.”

    I have no idea what to say, or even what she’s talking about.
    She senses this and laughs politely.

    “the factory in the poem.”
    As I leave the spit-gray factory,
    Crowds of Blackbirds drift
    up into the cumulus
    Like released balloons.
    I hold the wings of my fingertips in my coat pocket.

    “ah... I’m sorry. I’m with you now. I’m pretty sure I’ve worked there before.
    In fact it’s entirely possible that I still work there now.”

    Now it’s her turn to wear a bewildered expression.
    I offer her my simple explanation.

    “my life is a spit-gray factory surrounded by blackbirds.”

    She frowns, then smiles awkwardly,
    then looks up with relief at the approaching train.


    thursday hangover

    thursday hangover —
    someone on the train
    calls my name


    Wednesday, November 16, 2005

    November fog

    November fog —
    somewhere above me
    a crow


    Tuesday, November 15, 2005


    November —
    a stack of plastic chairs
    at the sidewalk cafe


    (another) company reorg

    company reorg —
    as long as someone tells me
    where the coffee is


    Monday, November 14, 2005

    for Jerry Kilbride

    full of wine
    on Telegraph Hill —
    a shooting star


    Friday, November 11, 2005

    Veteran's Day

    Veteran’s Day —
    an unopened Budweiser
    beside the monument


    Thursday, November 10, 2005


    November —
    an oak leaf pinned
    to my cubicle wall


    Wednesday, November 09, 2005


    wednesday —
    I don’t scrape the frost
    from my windshield


    terror eyes

    eyes as dark as mine were never meant to gaze upon eyes as bright as hers. except by accident—literally—I nearly stumbled over her turning the corner between Mass Ave and JFK.

    “I’m so sorry. I’m in such a rush this morning I’m not paying any attention to where I’m going.”
    “No—it’s totally my fault. I don’t know where my brain is.”

    I knew where mine was. Those eyes. And I was staring just a bit too long.

    “Can I make it up to you? Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”
    “Didn’t you just say you were in a rush?”

    Oops. Time to shift into The Surreal.

    “Yes I did. And I am. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that looking into your eyes is like stepping out of the subway and into the bright sunlight: very pleasant, but nonetheless arresting.”

    Her smile was an interim step between nervous laughter and a quick getaway.

    “Do real people talk like you?”

    Game over.

    “Sadly, no.”


    Tuesday, November 08, 2005


    autumn —
    the day-glo orange
    of prison jumpsuits


    Monday, November 07, 2005

    wake up early and you live to regret

    I had just finished creating a right sideburn when I opened up the medicine cabinet to get a fresh blade. when I closed the cabinet, a weary pair of eyes joined mine in the mirror. they seemed content to simply watch as I busied myself with shaving off the right side of my mustache, dipping the razor into the sink and shaking off the bristle after every two or three strokes.

    “why are you shaving off your beard?” she asked.
    “time for a change, that’s all.”

    the left side of the mustache was next, then the chin and neck.

    “why so early in the morning? it’s still dark out.”

    I shrugged.

    “I was awake. I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now, and when I couldn’t fall back to sleep I thought I’d just get up and do it.”

    the left sideburn would require another new blade. she sighed deeply.

    “look,” I said, gesturing at her reflection with the razor blade, “there doesn’t have to be a symbolic reason for everything I do.”
    “of course not. but in this case I’m pretty sure there is.”

    I rinsed the blade under a stream of hot tap water and continued.

    “I guess you know me better than I know myself.”

    finally finished, I rinsed my face and inspected my work.



    monday —
    a styrofoam cup
    filled with rain


    Sunday, November 06, 2005

    in the storm

    in the storm
    before the calm
    I walk the dog


    Friday, November 04, 2005

    November sunshine

    November sunshine —
    the cold medicine
    kicks in


    Thursday, November 03, 2005

    between the sheets

    between the sheets
                 the pop
    of a champagne cork


    Wednesday, November 02, 2005

    overheard on the train this morning

    “we all know that the other shoe is going to drop;
    what we don’t know is whether or not our foot will still be in it.”


    Day of the Dead

    Day of the Dead —
    the Jack O’Lantern


    same place the fly got smashed

    I don’t know why the bartender didn’t wake me up last night. Maybe he tried. Maybe he got tired of the same routine. Maybe he didn’t think to look under the back table. Or maybe he cherished the spectacle of seeing me woken up by the morning cleaning crew.

    They didn’t speak English. My Spanish isn’t as good as it should be, but I understood that one of them was about to call the police.

    “Dormía. Lo siento. Voy a salir ahora.”

    I sprang to my feet and dusted the stale Cheetos crumbs from my jacket while I fumbled for my keys. It was then that my Blackberry signalled an upcoming appointment.

    “Interview. Oh fuck.”


    All Soul's Day

    All Soul’s Day —
    the empty
    church parking lot

    All Soul’s Day —
    the cold medicine
    rings in my ears

    All Soul’s Day —
    the boss calls
    an impromptu meeting

    All Soul’s Day —
    the year-old calendar
    I keep forgetting
    to take down


    Tuesday, November 01, 2005

    Day of the Dead

    Día de los Muertos —
    the dog sits next to the fire
    and sighs


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