Friday, February 27, 2009

dccclxxxix

I thought you were going to call me
You’ve Got Several Schticks but you
broke a bottle of Pepto-Bismol
instead.   What’s it all about?

I’m sitting, facing the fireplace
these days, listening to my
arrhythmia, clutching my
graying hairs.   Come over here.

It emits little warmth.   Though
it’s a beautiful day, sunny,
brash, and relatively pink.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

dccclxxxviii

Another Methane Burger

She died the most beautiful death,
even more descriptive than this pair
of greens that clash with one another.
The poetry of Grey Gardens is
all I would ever need just dying.
And then Fort Chaffee burned
like a soul covered in ash under this
green on green tablecloth.   January
10th it’s official:   I am now a key
that will unlock a heavy door.   So
I try to broadcast this.   One day I
woke up and wanted to sleep with
him.   Turn the lights off and
make it the worst one ever.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

dccclxxxvii

The news is boring.   I can’t see
the island any more.   The mood:
peaceful and humorless, with a
desire to not express my feelings.
Peeing it out of your system.   Be
coming a contortionist just to
stretch it out.   Crawling out of
your skin to find a window with
a view.   Sending flowers.   It is
raining.

                                    —on poetry

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

dccclxxxvi

Apparently, there is a salmonella epidemic.
A cat walks into a kitchen, thinking about
food.   A scarf and a cap hang on a lover’s
doorknob.   First, find out what he does
when he’s alone.   We rented pizza and
ordered a barbershop.   The boss is away.
When this happens, I feel around in my
pockets for dollar bills.   Change is less
easy the older I get.   Moving to a new
location is psychically debilitating (it’s
the dishevelment).   The obvious is
often understated.   I like Indian food.
I slept on the couch, a bit uncomfortably,
but mostly because I had a cold.   His
poems matured exceedingly well.   It’s
nice to forget you’re a grown-up.   Folks
who care often find it unsettling when
their adult friends act like children (or
worse yet, teenagers).   More and more
of my own friends are convinced the
government is watching their every
move.   Most are more than a little
upset about this and quite paranoid
to boot.   Me, I’m nonchalant.

Monday, February 23, 2009

dccclxxxv

But all I do is bitch and what I mean is
I love you.

                                                    —Frank O’Hara

It seems I forgot how to mean
something.   Let’s go camping.
Let’s be silly but not juvenile.
Let’s noodle under the elms
and watch Hitchcock’s latest.
But wait.

No?

Four years of Wednesdays.   That’s
what he thinks of me.   It was all
one red herring after another.   Well,
there’s more than one way to skin a
cat.   And how.

Some days there’s these amazing...

I’m sure he’s not got much
up in the old attic, but I love
to watch him stagger around.
(See how he grimaces
with ecstasy?)

My palm-reader says a trendy
restaurant will be gone soon.

Note to self:   Oh, to kiss (but not that)!

“You make no sense
can we be boyfriends?”

There I go again with the orange walls.

Sucker!

Friday, February 20, 2009

dccclxxxiv

Lifting Like a Bridge Against the Sky

Please sit down before this
cocktail runs me over.   You
always have such
swell things to say.

This’ll never work.
And that’s what I love about you.

How is one ever to be
a perfectionist?   Are those
orange shoes?

Take, for example,
what a fine mess
we’ll have ourselves next week.
(I’m proactive so it’s already done.)

Plus (alas) I’m down on my knees
and it’s a blessed thing this isn’t legal!

Tomorrow
I’ll be plucking lavender
from my thumbnails.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

dccclxxxiii

Beware of still waters & overly obedient children
                                                                        —Lewis Warsh

Under the influence.   The wind is blowing
like an ocean.   Trust me when I say I’ve
been up all night.   I wonder what Monday
will bring.   I guess I can take a nap in the
parking lot.

Then I walked over to check out their
room at the St. Francis Hotel.   All we
did was go up and down the elevator.
That was pretty much yesterday.   Still
somewhat exhilerated by the breakthrough.

The birds are singing for me.   The new
television is like a black hole.   I will
take a shower in 20 minutes.   So what?
I am losing to the dawn, its doves
and trolleys.

I don’t remember any childhood
confidence.   I do remember exhileration.
Joy in getting lost.   Being “teacher’s pet.”
I didn’t rebel until a senior in high school.
The rest of my life I erase

every rule I ever learned.   All the while
feeding any spectators I can muster
my brilliant act of conformity.   Me,
an honest Gemini, whichever mask
is the true one.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

dccclxxxii

Partial list of proper names in Anachronizms (thus far)

Bing Crosby
Bob (a role I played in Toledo)
Almodovar
Jack (Spicer)
Mr. Atomic (made up name, I think)
David Lynch
Charlotte (made-up name)
Winsome (made-up name)
Miss Universe
Paul Hoover
Amy Lowell
Ezra (Pound)
Ross’s (no idea)
montgomery clift
Maggie (an old landlady)
Fonzie (but as an adjective)
Delusional (pretending it’s the full spelling of my own name)
Loretta (probably reference to Lynn – wrote an ‘autobiographical play’ about her)
Partridge Family
Norman Mailer
Cameron Diaz
Dad (only counting if I use as a proper noun)
Barber Joe (made-up name, I think)
Rednose (as in Rudolph)
Princess Diana
Guston (a dog named – made up, after Philip)
Julie Delpy
Charles Bukowski
Renee Zellweger
Willard Scott
Charo
Cinderella (referring to a Cinderella story)
Buddha
Josh
Dahlen (as in Beverly and "oh my Dahlen")
Archie and Jughead
Death (serves Vodka with Red Bull)
Kevin (I think Killian)
Aaron (I think Shurin)
LILY TOMLIN
Suzy (Saul)
Wallace and Gromit
David Hockney

Friday, February 13, 2009

dccclxxxi

All transitions are seamless
                              —Lewis Warsh

Another happy thing that comes with wisdom
is reliving the moments of pleasure and allowing
harsh times to dissipate, holding no resentment.
Assuredly, I have most always been this way,
and cannot understand the concept of revenge.
Perhaps this is something of me (innate,
certainly not genetic), rather than a gift
from years and experience.   A boy just
told me he loved me on a dancefloor.   My
father would have been sixty today.   Of this
I wrote “I am now the better him.”   Today
(when he would be sixty-five), I say
with confidence, “I am now me.”   We
should have spent the night in each other’s
arms.   Note to Bill: You’ll love that in one
of the last poems I wrote, I tried to use the
word “blather” – however, I looked it up in
my small dictionary and it wasn’t there.   So
I changed it to “bleat”.   My family calling
is shepherding.   Dark purple clouds in the
west.   Otto is at work in the kitchen (at his
laptop).   I am cognizant of a vector of love (life),
purposeful in its haphazardness, from there to
there to here.   This is the best day of my life.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

dccclxxx

Why be suddenly embarrassed that
Trent Reznor was my favorite artist
for a decade?   Yet, have avoided
(successfully?) angst-laced twitterings
ever since high school—a good decade
and a half of poetic retirement between
those first few sheafs I’ve hidden away
and my later “adult” attempts, during
which time my one overwhelming
passion was...acting.   Splice that and
you can get all kinds of ugly.   But yet.
C’est moi.   I could go scarcely a year
between stage roles, it was that heavy.
And I proclaim this poetic propensity
(now eleven years solid) more serious...
more passionate than anything previous?
It is for me, I state it fact, confidently, even
without adequate retrospect or elaboration.
I am a poet.   Nevertheless, the fear exists
that I would drop it clear and walk on
to whatever is next.   Well.   I proclaim
poetry my career and yet make a
decent enough (relatively speaking)
salary as a moderately content office
cog.   But, I do this for poetry, which,
after all, is anywhere and everywhere.
I am delusional and this is good.   I might
add to this melange that cinema has also
been no small passion.   I recall that
during the paltry Two Weeks Notice I
laughed all the way through it—a soft
spot for Hugh Grant and my cohort,
the only excuses I can offer; how he
(cohort) covered himself with his rain
coat and I slipped my arm underneath
and held onto his thumbs and fingers.
It was ecstasy for the first time in over
ten years (literal, and perhaps figurative,
but let the story of pills fall elsewhere).
This is how love can come from nowhere,
embarrassing love, true and irrational,
often up to no good, but also full of
passion, pleasure, and inordinate gravity.
How it remains a curious joy to parse over,
question, and relish for years to come.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

dccclxxix

Gets better with practice.   So
tongue-in-cheek, this desire
for a love letter from a stranger.

Happiness does this to me.   Ter
cets are probably the least effective
method.   Fireworks at 3:44am;

do you imagine they’ll make it
to jail?   Try a bigger risk today.
Send cathartic Christmas cards.

Watch three movies with Sepia
the Cat (Drift, Ice Age, and
Sunshine State); ironic how

blissful an experience.   Drink
cocoa, then cry.   I have a new
cellphone.   Rent U-Haul for

some furniture (long enough
without any).   Allow oneself
to be needy (how long has

that been?).   Lie to people,
most especially yourself,
and you the honest one.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

dccclxxviii

High enough, my arms
have found their way
around your waist, we who
generally dance in odd
orbits around each other,
sequences which minimize
proximity, yet now you’ve
awkwardly but calmly
backed into me.   Quick
(but time is gloriously
slow) my arms work up
to clasp your shoulders,
elusive dancer.   Why,
you’d stay, wouldn’t you?
Let’s part for a while and
imagine spectators, each
wanting a part of us (singly
or in combination).   You,
my new friend, practically
a stranger.

Monday, February 09, 2009

dccclxxvii

“You were more mature
when you were a child,”
my father said often to me
after I left home.   Well,
no wonder.   With wisdom
comes the realization that
maturity is often for the
birds.   Or at least inhibitions.
Perhaps it is a mistake to
confuse the two, but my
path toward pure hedonism
has never been more sure.
Just watched Adaptation,
an overly ambitious and
lovely Spike Jonze flick.
Whatever happened to him,
anyway?   Ah, he’s off to
Maurice Sendak’s Wild
Things
(screenplay co-
written by Dave Eggers).
Now you know (and why
shouldn’t you?).   Crab
fried rice at Thai Noodle
on Geary and Leavenworth
(my one and only venture,
before I awakened to the
superiority of Osha Thai,
just across the street). A
tiny glimpse of a hard
crush (the coat-check
boy) and a roll in the
proverbial hay with a
graphic designer from The
Academy of Art (“there’s
no sciences!”).   After
crab legs, the insecure
egomaniac (therapy is
for fools) changes his
mind, gleefully scribbles
a conglomerate of words
into the sand (almost
high tide now), and
then goes shopping
for a new bed.

Friday, February 06, 2009

dccclxxvi

This jumble, this collage,
while fictitious, is generally
and often a combination of
actual _____s, meant as a
sounding board, a record of
existence (most especially
while said existence is yet
extant), and some therapy,
some food for thought, a
way to differentiate and
to show that I am and
I am not, but not just
words written in sand.
What odd weather.   He
looks luscious in it
with his fresh tattoo
of who-knows-what
in Sunday comics ink
across his back.   He’s
being sweet again.
Interesting the names I
have no trouble typing
right here, and the ones
that are just too elusive.
Me.   And not me.   The
shame in both.

Thursday, February 05, 2009

dccclxxv

I’ve been two years without.
And who’s that drooling seductively
into a can of Rockstar?   I thought so.
The curtains are drawn before he can
even make it through Commercial
Variations
.   Backstage he flips through
his own notes, oh how he flips, finding
“the flaming laundries gushed at your
approach” and “you munch the crusts
of dawn and jerk out of sleep.”   Curses,
such egalitarian measures have
never been less successful, but
San Francisco has yet to be invaded
by Canada, China, or the Middle East
(pity those who carried the Stars and
Stripes into the bathhouses, ere well
before my own time, but here I
stand perhaps mildly corrected).   It’s
bonus in the bank day.   Ah, taxes.
The I.R.S. knows me still, and
call me while I am watching
the newest prequel to Star Wars.
Almost simultaneously, a
cloistered facsimile for “boyfriend”
reads a coat-check poem and
colors himself jealous.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

dccclxxiv

Trip over whatever you meant
to say to me.   Tumble into my
arms, so to speak, and I’ll
carry you gently to a
choice swath of real estate,
the deed of which just hopped a
plane to Istanbul (where an
old flame is later mugged,
twice in one day).   Fall on me
heavily, like a train wreck.
And so much time passes.
We’ll walk around wounded
in the drizzle, hand-in-hand,
then go home and sleep through
the morning’s meetings.   Wait
patiently for a masterpiece
because you are good like that.
Mistake Lucy Lawless for
Jewel as your forearms slam
deeply into my chest, knocking
me into what was supposed to be
the End-up, a Saturday retribution,
a date with Purple Monkey at
the Berkeley BART station, and
further into Panda Express, where
I meet a guy from Toronto
and awaken in a Scottish loft
near Lake Merritt (very good;
made me cry several tears).

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

dccclxxiii

My mother calls it the strainer
and I can’t find it.   For blackberry
jelly she’d fill it first with a cotton
cloth, the pure juice drained ever so
slowly.   It’s anything I’m looking to
wring at the moment, particularly
flavorful or no.   Even a memory or
two from Treasure Island, a chat over
sashimi, California rolls, and
cold unfiltered sake in a box.   Even,
sure, a movie with Jennifer Lopez,
then something passionate (how it
ever happens assuredly, electricity
distributed equally; perhaps only
a myth, nothing to wring there).
How this fits with Robert Duncan
and a “burger” of salmon fillet
is all I have time to guess.
Those were desparate days,
I have to believe; clocks ticking
incessantly, weeks of sunshine
giving way to months of fog,
and then that hour or two of
rain, a heavy downpour. Now
it’s fever (nothing tropical)
with distant sirens at two
in the morning.   I wish I
were here, so that I could
look up to the two wall vases
full of dried lavendar and
imagine my train about to
arrive, full of magical kisses
and delicate conundrums.

Monday, February 02, 2009

dccclxxii

Asia can wait, of course,
I thought, looking up at eyes
that never saw as lovely as this.
I take a drink

from Frank’s gorges of blossom
and wink like a grandfather clock.
We’re almost to a new year,
“Happy Christmas,

everyone!”   A postcard from
Gerrit in the jewelry box
with a scarf slung over it.
The rains

come for sure, I fly through
February and March, still in
America, where the lyric
has long

filed for divorce.   What
will the sewages think of next,
I wonder, as we stroll humbly
up the corkscrew avenues, the

bottlebrush graciously
combing our hairs?   “Pomade?”
he asks, and I gladly accept.
These, the days

of neither a spot on our ascots,
nor a care in the world.