mmmmmxcvi

Riding the Soldiers of Romance

     I would like to beat someone with him
     but I can’t get him off my shoulders, he’s like evening.
                                                          —Frank O’Hara

People tell me I’m romantic.  But
I’m a logical guy.  It’s only when I 

happen to not be paying attention

for a little bit that I get caught up
in some affair.  They’re always sordid.
My unbroken rule is that each time that

tornado gets me, something so absurd
and with which I have no experience
gets added to each ride.  Which is surely

a hell created only for me.  I’d rather 

see myself spit-roasted and served to the

squadron to which I belong (or belonged;

death removes, remember?).  “How’d he
kick the bucket?”  “Trying to follow that
roadmap to LOVE, that’s how!”  My

brain hurts to remember how to explain

that last part to you.  Because of the
crime of which I’m accused (a

story, so sorry, that’s terribly true)....
Relieved of his hell, that slow act
of dying was to be his final curse,

or worse.  People, a lot of them,
thought him romantic.  Daily, he

could be heard relaying this aloud.

 

“It’s true, I swear, and this I’ve been 

told, at least once a day.”  At least up

until today.  Does that mean I’m dead?

mmmmmxcv

Mermaids of Pressure

Oh, he meant pleasure.
Mermen massages.
Oohses and Ahhses.
Merman in heat.  Gawd,

that would be neat.
Hair got a permanent.
[Intimate sperm interlude.]
Mormons being sinners, 

quick, what’s your pleasure?
Have you yet measured?
It can still pleasure.
Mars Bars or Mom sweets?

Psh!  Chocolate wuss dandies.
Don’t get so pushy, dear.
It is not the fear I’m afraid
of.  Mushrooms cause

fissures.  Yeah,
go figure.

mmmmmxciv

Those who don’t know history are doomed.
         —from the trailer for HBO’s Life, Larry and the Pursuit
            of Happiness: An Almost History of America (2026)

I see the trailer early this afternoon while I’m
frying up some vegetables and have put on a
pot of rice for lunch, all goodies from yesterday’s
trip to the weekly food pantry.  Cooking takes up

a lot of precious time, and I find myself relaying
this often.  Is it because I don’t like to cook, or
simply because I am lazy?  No, I think the reason 

is I’d rather be doing other things, like checking

off “to do” list items, making important phone calls
(why are there so many of these, they seem to
propagate exponentially as time goes) (and does
it ever go!), reading, writing, posting new pieces

to my 21-year-old online daily project (this one!).
Anyway, there’s not much else to say about that

opening line except that it resonates too well.  I’m 

tired of being didactic, of feeling a need to preach or

teach (it’d mostly be to the converted, anyway, given

the tiny ways I go about such things) (activism—
will I ever resign myself to at least acknowledging
that it’s a responsibility I do take rather seriously,

and one within which I choose not to explicitly operate,
certainly not in any traditional sense, except perhaps,

again, in these lines, which, as noted earlier, is preaching

to the converted, I suppose).  Did I quickly type it up just 

to remind myself of this, to nudge myself into trying
new ways to make a difference?  I suppose it is a bit
too obvious.  In that deceptively profound way.  But
it must not be obvious to everyone, if I am correct.  It is

to the folks in that category I should send such a reminder?

But if I am right, how would I reach any for whome that notion 

wouldn’t begin to register?  Would convincing be possible?  How 

the nastiness of political division and—dare I say it?—sheer 

and mandated ignorance have made it seem imperative 

that even I do something, anything, if a single thing can 

even be done about such a dilemma.  Surely something can

be done, there must be many possibilities, but each avenue 

I can imagine in which I’d make a difference (kindly and gently 

doing my best to encourage without coming across as if I’m 

proselytizing, as if I am preaching or teaching) would require 

devoting my life to the cause.  And how would I know that my

values are even the right ones?  I decided long ago against such a 

commitment to be a loudspeaker.  And so the values I find imperative

and the history that makes each of them so lie at times within lines 

that are likely to be never seen by any of the multitude of individuals 

for whom such notions might assist.  And so I keep doing as I do, 

all the while pondering how important it is go further, to find
at least a balance between devotion to a cause or two and my
otherwise hedonistic or artistic or financial tendencies.  So that

in the end have I taken down this little quote from a cute, perhaps
poignant new Larry David comdy coming out on television soon just
to verify that a cynic, a comedic celebrity, is doing more to make 

the world a better place than I ever will (even if on HBO), to remind 

me of my cowardice?  No.  It is something I already know. As I also
know that I’ve perhaps made a small difference, if indeed my
basic ideas of morality and a pretty full lifetime intent upon
educating myself and trying hard to maintain (what I determine

in my little head) how I should be in order that I might make a
difference and live a life I can be happy to have lived, doing my 

part, which will really never be enough.  It’s never enough.  This 

afternoon I shall attempt to own that.  The hyperbolic corruption 

and immorality of this era, this backwards movement away from
progress, this nightmarish regress, something I’d never known
until recently in my short life of mostly impatiently but sometimes
gleefully enjoying living in a land of three steps forward and two

steps back—followed by three solid steps forward—that this blessed

repetition has suddenly reversed course, seemingly ten-fold in speed.
I am a coward, it is true, and perhaps even moreso by saying it.  If you
exist, you no doubt already know this.  And for that I apologize, knowing

that act is but pouring fuel on the fire that is leading us back to the
Dark Ages, and I’m in goose-step with the masses, complicit in
our destruction.  Nothing I can say could possibly justify it.  And
yet I say it anyway.  Unless, of course, this gives me (or perhaps

an imaginary you) the gumption to help put on the brakes in
an attempt to reverse course.  About face!  I can hardly walk, much

less turn 180 degrees, barely able to breathe.  Enough excuses!  I’m  

old.  Perhaps an adventure would help me recapture my motivation,

regain some energy.  Who’s up for an adventure?  Oh, but it’s time 

for a nap.  Here in the isolation booth, I decide to sit motionless.  Is

that staying the course?  Does it alter a destination?  To lie in sleep and

dream with satisfaction that to do nothing is a ‘step’ in the right direction.

mmmmmxciii

Mood Movement
(the physics of hues)

The hours are blue.  A blue
that is beautiful, calms the
senses, loosens the tension
behind the eyes.  How are

you doing with the blues?
My mood fluctuates.  It
appears this is pretty
common among us.  So,

is there a color, a specific
hue—the shade of which is
just a sliver up the spectrum 

from heartbreak, and the smallest

nudge down that very same
spectrum from elation—that,
no matter what you’re feeling,
always (always) moves you,

even if just a little bit, in the
direction of a specific feeling?
You can disassociate that hue
from the feeling toward which

it moves you.  If you work at it.
That’s creativity.  But blues are
beautiful.  The blue.  Despair
lives in the same room as joy.

Find your thrills and screw with
them.  Be blue and purple.  And
orange.  Sing pinkly until you cry.

While doing it; and before and after.

mmmmmxcii

Walk the Walk

       And the rooftops are falling apart like the applause

     of rough, long-nailed, intimate, roughened-by-kisses, hands.

                                                                                         —Frank O’Hara

There is a snowstorm, there is hail, lightning.  There

is wind coming at you at more speed than your body

can possibly outmaneuver.  There are the gutless

(soulless) caretakers in whose minds we, those

for whom these demons were called to shelter

from such calamities, do not exist.  And there is a

man hunched almost rotten scratching these words

into this unknown and hopefully reliable surface,

who always chose to fight the good fight with no

fists and short-tempered humor.  A being mostly

predisposed, let’s say by anti-genetics, let’s say that

if he was led by example, his composure, his posture

and general direction were means to NOT be any who

performed before him, who preached at him such skewed

notions of wrong versus right, who built the houses in which

he slept and ate and the schoolyards and playgrounds in

which he played, who tilled the gardens he helped harvest.

The spooked horses he rode through the brush.  The

deceptively thin rivers in which he, as a child, with a rock

the size of his belly tucked and knotted securely within

his t-shirt, dives into that river, its deep swollen current

unbeknownst, threshing through his clothing with his

awkward arms until they bled out with the speed of

the riverbed’s rush of fish and slime-ridden water until

he was free.  Without a moment to spare.  That ancient

impulse to flap his feet as if they were amphibious, and

he was spewed through the surface, able to float almost

as motionlessly as the water was restless, saving that

last bit of energy for when his head bit into the bank

and he rolled atop its clayey surface, safe from death

by drowning or whatever tragedy that wretched river

might have had in store for him, and he breathed,

looking up at the storm-cleared sky for long enough

to be grateful, and then longer still so that he would

remember to be grateful.  And so when he stood as

tall as he could, which he soon did, he’d move in the

directions that grateful and alive would take him,

including those darker places where he’d once again

find himself in danger, but thenceforward each time

he crossed that threshold, he did so with purpose.

mmmmmxci

The Threat Level Moves to Elephant

It’s imminent.  No telephone
can shield us now.  Grant us
the passage of least resistance,
make the pain never go away.

Because when it does.  It’s as if
the Tonys were a movie fighting
an evil version of the Incredible
Hulk.  Or boots made out of llama

hyde.  It wasn’t Tony that drove to
South America, killed all those bugs w/
Kool-Aid at sky o’clock.  It wasn’t
us wearing our fanciest bandanas

as we buckled up in the rocket-ship.
And anyway, this was before the
foreclosure, before the initial war
ning signs, before the airwaves

elaborated on the threat, ramping
it up to elephant.  That gorgeous
Dumbo in my soul.  How we then
recall zingers long forgotten, and

are even more certain of the
wasteland they all were.  She
orders a shot from the nose of a
pre-sliced clown.  The guarana

seizes her sinuses until the
cyan—guarana & cyan—“Re
member, it’s like Jack &
Diane”—makes them bleed.

mmmmmxc

Alk = Talk

It’s sky o’clock.
There’s a knock
and at this hour
on the carport door.

I watch the news
massages for maybe
four hours and I am
trying to be very

careful about how I
tell you this scary
story.  The glory
of a deep tissue

treatment in
juxtaposition
with everything
improper seems

but a hollow holler
given this super-
pixellated
Miami miasma.

mmmmmlxxxix

Epitaph

He ate like a toddler.

mmmmmlxxxviii

This Year’s Hollywood Roundtable of Poets

I got invited to this year's Hollywood Round

table of poets.  You know how they decide
who gets to be on these annual artistic
showcases?  So I was so excited.  I quickly

glanced over the list of the other poets
who were going to be at the roundtable.
There was ____________, the Pulitzer
Prize winner I pretend to the few friends

I in reality have is my actual friend.  There
were two of my true poetic heroes, _______ 

and _____________, the latter of which

is also a gay poet, which made me happy

to not be that token, but also made me
feel a bit competitive.  Oh, and there is
my former mentor, ___________, to '

whom I basically owe my whole career, 

and with whom I had a serious falling 

out over a decade ago and we have not

spoken since. I wonder if I should put
in a call beforehand just to clear the

air.  Or maybe the people who put
us together wanted some intentional
tension.  But the host is __________,
and you know how much of a weak

interviewer they are.  I mean, they
should at least get another poet to
moderate, but that’s never how these
things go, is it?  Perhaps a one-on-one

poet-on-poet talk would have been
a better idea for me.  Oh, but there’s
also _________ on the panel, who is
way out on the fringe, a place I always

feel I own.  But then don’t we all?  I’ll
have to work extra hard not to feel
competitive with how far toward or
outside of the margins my work, my

readers exist.  These fantastical thoughts
bloomed like explosions within my head
for the months leading up to the round
table, but the coolest thing happened

once the day arrived.  We all posed so
eloquently and each of us knew with
utter confidence that we were making
just the right responses to each question,

pushing the absolute best advice about,
whatever our intent, and with such keen
focus on the mix of unexpected, super-
accidental readers or fans, the ones

with whom if we were to have a real
conversation there would literally be
a negative vibe, aongside those with
whom you’ve worked your entire life

honing a relationship so that you have
those few or at least someone who
just gets you. I hear the ratings were
not so good and that they’re thinking

of eliminating the poetry category
for next year’s roundtables, in which
case, sad as that would be, what a
thing to get to be on the last one ever.

mmmmmlxxxvii

Sometimes It’s The Right Metaphor

      O syrup of mammoths!
                      —Frank O’Hara

I’ve recently been reminded that
more regularly than pedestaling
any other artist in my life, I note
as poetic hero, inspiration and

most significant influence the dear
Mister O’Hara.  I think I am convinced

that, In that regard, I am also old
enough to feel fine with that, to

feel like that is about right.  So,
we’re back to one of the two biggest
subjects that seem to keep coming up
these past few weeks, in this case not

lack of money, but instead, a movement
toward older age: the syrup of mammoths.

mmmmmlxxxvi

Broke As Doke

And if I weren’t too old
to try out a career as a
gigolo (knowing that sex
has turned into more of

a niche market than it
ever was, perhaps, but
I can’t really imagine an
actual scenario in which

that would have or could
ever be my career path),
plus, don’t get me wrong,
there are plenty of ways

these days to make a buck
or two, salacious or otherwise,....

No Need For This To Be Continued

mmmmmlxxxv

More Age Old Meanderings

Sometimes I wonder at
what age I’ll finally stop
being so rowdy, calm
down and become an 

adult.  Then I decide

that happened years ago.

And that I was never very 

rowdy in the first place.

mmmmmlxxxiv

“A Real Commitment to Humility”

Conan O’Brien just told this year’s
Harvard graduating class that this
is a focus the value of which is, to
him, greater than any diploma that

one might get from any esteemed,
elitist, or any other variant of an
academic institution.  He acknow
ledges that “we are living through

a time of extreme narcisissm.”  “I 

understand that I am preaching
modesty and connection at a time

when this is not in style,” is how he

started that thought.  I say perhaps.  

But there’s a growing hunger for what

kids these days call authenticity (which,
granted, was until recently a foreign

concept to me, but I’m a guy who likes
to finger the pulse of the trends of
graduates of all kinds).  And finally,
working my way backwards through

his stand-up routine at the ceremony,
Conan O’Brien said this: “As you are
aware, the current administration feels
Harvard admits too many foreign students,

and who knows, they may have a point.
After all, what has any foreigner added
to our American culture, with the possible
exception of music, literature, art, cuisine,

fashion, architecture, dance, scientific
breakthroughs, and the core of our
moral codes and ethical beliefs.”  This
from a Doctor of Comedy, or a comedic

doctor.  Humor wends itself individually
into the brains of its beholders, who are
hopefully all of us.  Poetry, I’d say, not
so much.  But at least I have tried to make 

it so here, by building one mostly out of
the words of this humanitarian who’s had

the luxury of graduating from one of our
most elitist and esteemed institutions, a

modern day legacy who also happens to be,

at least in my humble opinion, a supremely

funny human being, and an ambassador to reality,

by way of ingenuity, in humor and show business.

mmmmmlxxxiii

I Am Yellow Watermelon

I have just learned
that my “gangster name”
is the color of my shirt
and the last thing I ate.

mmmmmlxxxii

“Corndog Time!”

This is after the era of
Gary’s swear bath (which,
truth be told, never happened,
not once, at least to the best of
my knowledge) and soon after the
whistle that lit the entire village on
fire just to get four kids home to dinner.
While the whistles worked wonders, the
corndogs would bring us all together even

more quickly. The only difference was that 

with the latter, the village never had to burn down 

(because, of course, the dogs were very dapper Dalmations).

mmmmmlxxxi

“And Perhaps, Planning a Nuclear War”

You said that seventeen and a half years ago.

I like it when you say “17 & a half years ago.”

You said something like that at the turn of the

century.  I like it when you turn (like centuries), 

and when you’re on both ends.  I like both of your 

ends.  I like it when you don’t go to pot.  I like it 

when we take a gummy apiece and say hours

and hours and hours of terrifyingly comforting

things, in scenario format, each voice over that

of the other’s, as if we’re at war, and only

one side will come out alive.

mmmmmlxxx

Two Dots* on a Mission

“See those two blips
on the dark side of
the moon,” said NASA.

“They’re part of the mission.

Two dots is all.  See how
they keep blippin’, like

dot dot!  And then a pause.
And then dot dot!  And this
goes on for a few minutes,

maybe thirty dots’ worth,
then they’re gone.  For
good.”  Those two dots.

That was us.  We were
only a small part of the
mission.  Jackson doesn’t

even know it was us, but
it was us.  Nobody’s listening,
it’s just the two of us, hairs

rising from just behind the
knobs atop our wrists.  “It’s
teevee what made us, Bob.”  

Such a dumb sonuvabitch thing 

to say.  “Of course it was teevee
that made us, Harold!  Gawd!”

Bob didn’t like dumb sonuva
bitch declaratives, nor ambulating
lights that lifted over the solace

like two helixes.  “Is helixes the
plural of helix, Hal?”  Bob got
awkward when those hairs

started standing straight up
like that.  You’d think with
all that astronaut training,

one would by instinct be
able to focus under pressure,
under the most pressure.

The helixes rose in the
distance from whatever
the dust from which they

were rising until both pairs
of the men’s eyes glowed.
Nothing supernatural-like,

except it was that blue-
green neon that was
emanating from each

of those dusty helixes,
a sort of reflection, Bob
was thinking, before their

vessel burst clean and cold.
The two eviscerated blips
knew exactly what to do next.

*and their names were Dorothy Parker & Dorothy Hamill

mmmmmlxxix

If You Had Asked for My 15-Year Plan 25 Years Ago...

(an exercise in futility)

It wasn’t going to be this.
I should write an autobiography,
and entitle it Losing My Education.
Or, How to Complain More as the
Life You Worked Like Mad to Achieve
Is Frittered Away.  But, me?  I can’t
become the very templates of the folks
(particularly men), mostly academics, older,
complaining about how they had been
ripped off from gaining whatever
achievements they’d set their sights
toward however long ago their youth

might have been.  Nor would I have 

any desire to become any of the 

numerous business executives for and
around whom I have worked some
three decades plus, who at every
corner, eyes rolling back into my
head each time one of them is 
turned, there’d be 3-year, 5-year,
10-year and 20-year plans sliding

hot and dry from the color printer.  

There were only two fixtures that

never failed to show up in these:
dollar signs and a human figure inching 

its way up some career ladder, atop 

which lies the inevitable nest egg for 

a retirement that, with focus

so intent upon said egg,
one likely could never 
begin to enjoy.  Because

there is always more to 

be made, higher offices

in which to lay down
brief stakes.  It sounds
remorsefully tempting for me
to imagine, however, anything
gained with as much regularity
as the losses that I keep accruing.
And that, from me, is more than a 

regretful and foul-tempered complaint.
Therefore, I’ll screw myself back together
and somehow imagine the yet-to-

appear rainbows which will inevitably

surround me.  And the races won
to the end of each, where would

always lie pots of glimmering

gold.  Somehow.  Happiness
being just a state of mind,
easily adjusted, etc.  And so,
I look around at each
adjacent horizon,
connecting them
all together

in my mind’s
eye until they’re
some stunningly
gorgeous walls
that each begin
to look top-heavy,
slanting ever angularly,
toward me, with seeming 

intent upon burying me

entirely, deep beneath

each angular juxtaposition.  

And, sure enough, or can’t 

you see, isn’t this about
the moment when that
crescent of hope begins
to glimmer,
putting the
fix on all of
this morbid
nonsense?
I think
my sliver
may have
been recently
devalued thanks 
to my mood, which,

in turn, reflects and

influences my current 

24-hour plan, which by the hour

shows my chances of survival

diminish.  The chiseling

away of any hope.

Nope.  I cannot 

at present even begin

to get to any sunshine 

from where I am now.

mmmmmlxxviii

Mostly Illegible List
of What I Needed a
Few Weeks Ago
and Still Need Now(?)

_flint (to start fires with)
_cretins (crickets?)
_dot com paper
_half & half (presently more at _gallon of milk)
_moab/gun*
_homopins**
_aaa batteries for sphygmomonometer
_food (pretty straightforward)
_juice, diet soda and the like (ditto)

...oh, that’d be...
*mint/gum
**klonopin

mmmmmlxxvii

What’s News?

It’s been a week
at least since I
ducked out of it.

And, boy, would
I prefer to be a
duck and keep

floating or flying
onward and
unawares.

However, me
being me,
and not

a duck....

mmmmmlxxvi

Why can one never go hungry in the desert?

I think that I know

the genre that I will

be remembered for:


Food Insecurity.


Wouldn’t it be

nice to be

remembered?

Because of the sandwiches there.

mmmmmlxxv

Fill in the Blanks

Back then,
whenever
we heard
the growl
of a tummy,
we’d be on
our way to
__________.

Today, when
we feel the
earth recoil
at something
vociferously,
we check the
earthquake
website (if
we have
internet
access).

Then, if all
looks okay
there, we
reach to
pick up
the phone
to call our
__________.

Food Insecurity

mmmmmlxxiv

Genetic Propulsion

My father left this world a
few months over 25 years
ago.  He was 58,

which is the same age I am
right now, the same age I
will be for 18 more days,

after which (barring 
unexpected anomalies,
I should most humbly add)

I’ll celebrate my 59th birthday.
For a while now, at least since
I turned 50, this thought has

grown within me, and become
more persistent, like the
percussive, rhythmic

beat of a band marching upon
the street toward me in a
parade for which I’m an

intentional spectator, that
is both a celebration and
a memorial for some

tragic and significant event
that happened long ago,
important enough to

remember, and not
somberly, but with
a buoyant heart,

as one among my
people, with joy
and revelry, in

memoriam
and in solidarity.

Same Old Story

mmmmmlxxiii

I Look Like a Fruitcake

My hair is all mullet on top and
Navy SEAL around the bottom.
Bottom?  Top?  Fruitcake.
“No offense to myself meant,”
said Jon Stewart to his good
pal last night.  He was talking
about looking like a snow
monkey, about how “You
know what I look horrible
in these days?” or some
such.  Punchline: “Pictures!”
He was talking about aging
with the friend with whom
he’d started working some twenty-
seven years previous.  It seemed
an honest bit, one with which I
could certainly relate.
“None taken,” he added,
a bit mumbly, off-the-cuff,
in response to himself,
sitting next to his
longtime friend.
“Who wants a
hairnet full of
fruitcake?”
That was just me
punching backwards,
something I do on occasion
for a bit of extra energy.

mmmmmlxxii

That Year

In 2012, I was filling up my

personal printer with copy

paper (since it was my

printer, I would have

been filling it with

the cheapest

copy paper

I could

find).

mmmmmlxxi

Just Ride It

The monster has grown dim.
You keep riding it over the
wilderness as your ride keeps
coughing up lukewarm charcoal.

You’d like to tell it to get lost.  But
even a dying monster knows the
way back home.  Yes, it has home.
You can pretend all you want that

you don’t.  Tickle it under its grizzled
chin, lighten up on the kidney kicks,
drop that gnarled whip down upon
the next floating cotton curd.  Eat

your pride.  It’s not your journey
anymore.  It’s your loyal companion’s.

mmmmmlxx

If You’re Lucky

     Everyone experiences grief (if you’re lucky)
                                   —Stephen Colbert

I’m certain that he didn’t originate this 

notion, but I just heard him say it (in that 

just off-kilter way) on a one of numerous

YouTube clips of him this week, this one by 

People magazine about the end of The Late 

Show.  My dad died less than a year after I 

moved to San Francisco, where I now happily 

reside.  He was 58, which is how old I will be

for around three more weeks, give or take
a day.  The way I remember it, the last thing
he said to me was I love you, Del.  And he did.
My little brother passed overnight in the cab

of his stationary pickup truck.  He was at my
Aunt Patti’s place in Missouri.  He was 47,
and it had been less than three years since
I got him to come visit me here in California.

It was the only time all four of us (me and my
siblings) were together at any one of the many
places I’ve lived since leaving home for college
back in 1985.  That visit had been (and still is) 

one of the happiest extended weekends of my 
life.  There were three great-grandparents, two
of whom I got to spend much time with and I
remember each vividly.  And all four of my 

lovely grandparents, each of whom I knew well
and with whom I had the great luxury of spending
countless hours.  My maternal grandmother,
Mabel Louise Van Meter, was among them.  She

was my chief inspiration for becoming a diarist
and a poet (and who most likely was the inspir
ation for any of the rare qualities I have that
a consensus might judge morally good).  There

have been others, like my pal Kim, with whom
I’d stay up talking nonstop, each of us mostly
over the voice of the other’s, well into the early

morning on so many nights during my first 20

years on the West Coast.  And there was Kevin, 

who of all of the long list of poets’ and artists’ 
contact info I’d been given by friends in Boston
before moving here to the Left Coast all those

years ago, was the first to respond to my shy 

ask once here.  He took me post haste to the 

Black Cat in North Beach to hear a couple of poets 

read, and he introduced me, I swear, to every 

one else who was in attendance.  But the death

that by far has hit me the hardest up to now has 

been that of Sepia the Cat, who was but 13.  She

had been with me for almost all of those years,

first in Jamaica Plain, then my first place here 

on Anza Vista, then to my studio on Bush Street,

and finally to the apartment at the corner of

Pine and Mason, on Nob Hill.  Having missed 

almost no day without her during most of her 

short but seemingly content life (and a signif

icant portion of mine), I can say that the pain 

of her passing hit me harder than I would 

have ever imagined.  It was stark and it was 

tangible.  So it seems that I have been one 

of the lucky ones.  And on that notion (and 

in general) I cannot but heartily concur.

mmmmmlxix

And I Am S L O W with Peace

Or pieces of it anyway.  The
pain in my lower back and
the spike driven through
the back of my neck (I

think it’s been driven be
tween my spine and my
throat, if that is even
possible).  It sounds

like it’s raining, this
through the one open
window (I’ve only two)
that rises above my

portable kitchen, is
hidden behind the
big television that
rises from the foot

end of my bed.  I
don’t want The
Late Show to end,
not ever.  I don’t

want to watch
another senate
hearing.  I want to

survive solely as an
artist (and this may

be the only time 

since becoming one 

that I have ever 

had this compulsion).

mmmmmlxviii

The Gap

I wish
I could
take
back

every
thing
be
tween

then
and
now.

No Regrets

mmmmmlxvii

I Can’t Remember What to Call This

Because it doesn’t matter

and never did.  Can’t we

all agree that titles are

important?  Might give

the rest of whatever

comes a bit of fur

ther poignancy?

mmmmmlxvi

Can You Guess Where I Am Right Now?

Remember the game we used to play?

Which you somehow almost always won.

Even like now, when I could not tell you

my location, would be hard-pressed to

even describe my environment, you’d

most often come through with the name

of the actual place. A real point on a map

I’d be, which neither of us would be able to

authenticate until some time later when

I had come to, so to speak, and had the

wherewithal to redraw my footsteps, to

figure out where it was I was at that

particular moment.  But you.  You

somehow knew.  So can you guess

where I am now?  Not only would

I love to know, but for reasons that

seem most important to me at the

moment, I’d give everything I have

(which, granted, is almost nothing)

for a map with which I might possibly

use get the hell out of here. Can you

try once more to guess where I am?