dlxxii

I can’t lie you’re the best person ever. Except
I need an aspirin for my eyeball and some
apple juice. And I think that’s a totally legitimate
pet peeve.

I’m guessing you didn’t get the e-mail:
long, flowing and with a flower print. It was
elegance. We walk by her every morning
before the traffic accident. It’s a
good thing he speaks Chinese like a pixie
because getting it back is difficult.
This
was the year Tom became
Thomas (w/segue via Thom)
and Andy became Andrew. Are they
new friends if I call them by their new names?

It was also the year his boyfriend turned 40
eating sushi. I remember it well (ha!).
We sat front row and center
at the Kabuki. The underwater dragon was
really cool; sleek, black, and enormous,
it would shoot up out of the water and
straight into the air, head-first,
do a somersault and then slither back down into
the water without even a splash,
making other people’s stress worth living for.

dlxxi

Forget precision. That’s
ancient history. But I will
be major. Somehow.

Somewhere down the line
you must have gotten disappointed.
“We are poets.”

Today’s flower, the bloodroot,
seems pure as the driven snow,
despite the murder its name implies.

Thomas says “Yep, quake,
kiddies all outside” and that he’ll
“feel” me in on the details later.

It warms my heart to think of you
walking around all day
without product in your hair.

dlxx

Every word is death. Therefore the anger of eye is also
of voice of brain of arm of skin of ever more sensitive
to touch to lift losing tranquillity caress.

I am list. Me. This. List. Therefore. Let’s.

back up. To Friday night the Equinox spinning
360° view of the Bay/Financial District at
Hyatt Embarcadero white wine cheeses
olives. Then dancing at.

“A doctor dressed as Captain America was arrested
after groping a woman at a bar and fighting with her boyfriend,
authorities said.”

Then dancing at Café got e-mail kid from Pixar
on Saturday rainy like last week and
yesterday drove to Berkeley bought
$92 used books. $92 used. $92 death. All death.

Please don’t tell me I am doing something new here.
I’m not trying to be complicated. It’s just

We these poems. for Vertigo presentation.
And these again. just we on the fire and.
Also together. these a notwithstanding.
And also. just watched and bitched.
And recently. island and postcard.
And hummingbird. these we island postcard.
And weakly. “but something besides death?”

Therefore
this is war.

dlxix

Forget importance. Forget story.
Forget heroic facsimile, relevant reference.

Reevaluate fantasy.

Today’s flower, the tulip,
and gender ineffability. Forget
haze, sky (related to haze),
and island. Forget words con
densed to fit into a dictionary.

Exist. I drive a lot
to the house I grew up in.
When I compare my childhood
I get confused. I
remember something carved
into a sycamore tree. I remember we had
a terrific Saturday. I remember I had scary thoughts
I didn’t want to have and I felt energized. I
read a book. Angelo moved to New Jersey. But.
(All hail forget!)

I can take this any direction I want
even if it is awful or hurts. The apricot
and the carrot cake are particularly good.
Scratch this out. Experimentation
(like fantasy) is always allowed. Things blow up that way.

Forget the best thing about scar tissue.

dlxviii

I can’t stop moving in anticipation of
the bridge is gorged in her crossing
with the depth of intelligence
gleaned at 40.

Poetry I love you primarily
in Kubrick’s meaning
(cryptic and obscure) and
in deer dangling.

Further reconcile all complexity.
Secure in knowing the tricks
of the trade. Nailbite
egregious pretense
fasting.

dlxvii

Love is not shutting up.  Don’t take that
the way I intended.  You’d get a better feel
if this were not so short.  A better
feeling. Coffee’s brewing.  The characters
in the television cuddled on the couch
I am drawn to.  To which I am drawn.  Are
drawn, too.  I wasn’t trying to be funny.
They are Heroes like comic book superheroes
they do things I get excited about.  I tune in.
My love is not shutting up driving around
watching sunrise.  Nor breakfast hike.  Nor
all snowy (on ground) with tame deer
right on the trail about six total including
one buck.  Nap.  Then movies.  Love
is not disap-
I always enjoy our discussions so nice
a friend.  The drive back and then my
boyfriend looks into a mountain.  Sure
septic tanks, too.  Two big queen beds.
Two big beds for two big queens.  I’m not
trying to.  Too much anyway.
A kitchenette with a microwave
iced over in the middle of the woods.
I hope we see a bear.  Holding
my hand.  My problem is I am not okay
with too much love.  Too much love is
not enough.  If we see a bear I will
be fulfilled.  Too much love is never enough.
My problem is I am not okay with too much
love.
Not okay with too much love.
These are my problems.
I come home from work and I collapse.

dlxvi

Bridalveil Falls at sunrise!
Can you believe we got up this early?

Henceforward I will always
be like this

deer here.  But I don’t want any
couplets.  You’re such a sham.

Skip a line between each
double-space stupid.  It’s

so nice to get away
from me.  Crying

loving healing.  Things
I am not doing.  Edward Albee

says every line has two purposes
1. delineate character and

2. advance plot.
Anything otherwise is waste.

You wanna phone call?  OK
but it can’t go over the page.

Hey ghost of Ansel—wow,
El Capitan is lighting up

the tripods.

dlxv

Happy St. Valentine’s Day
when I broke up with my
only girlfriend. Hitchcock
and nacho dip.

dlxiv

Something a little longer.  That’s cool.  I am
up at the top of the hill sitting at this desk
outside inside.  The birds in me deal with the DMV
they like that.

              (Don’t capitalize, italicize!)

I am sitting here.
The Nob Hill crones (now don’t be harsh) walk their dogs.
I like the dogs and the crones they aren’t really crones.
Love of crones.

He is markedly flying out, flying into me.
We make a delusional excursion.  I forward this along
in hopes my experiences watching porn writing poems
at Yosemite View Lodge in El Portal.  I’m so forward

reading this poem and writing one at the same time
with the window open to silence.  I got my registration
before the flick.  I thought I saw him.  But it wasn’t him.

She has some sort of infection that hasn’t been
ascertained.  I’m not talking about you.  Cheers.

dlxiii

I (yes, me)
the streetlamps
a tercet of coffee

overlooking
humbled
pictographs

sure wrens
wending rivulets (I always liked that one)
fucking birds

the bulb
(oh now I remember)
Notley’s pronouns

not for the smoke
at the city
but air

the night
split in two

dlxii

Sitting at a joint on the edge of Chinatown
called Uncle Vito’s. Sour mood. Which
I’m going to try to adjust by going ahead to
Nathaniel Dorsky’s trio at SFAI.

Walnut prawns and chicken fried rice.
Very loud bird. Twitters and chirps.
Deadpan aircraft noises. Ziplock
reusable container, microwave safe,
dishwasher safe, patent pending (a
sorry excuse for creativity).

Prell shampoo!

I’ll just fill my days and fill my nights
with the Joe Brainard exhibit.

dlxi

Here I am again,
Shakespeare Garden. The
birds listening to Ani DiFranco
on such a pleasant day. Chirp
being the inappropriate word;
it doesn’t sound right. Then
there was the poem I wrote.
It was a nice poem in three parts.
Dusk approaches. The elevator
kicks in. The concept of bi-
location. I am there and I am also
here next to this green bag from
Tiffany. In it, a bottle of
champagne and a small treasure.
Fred Asparagus dips Ginger
into the Sea of Mustard.

dlx

the bus arrives.

draft of a poem written
while sitting
waiting for the bus.

dlix

the new wrinkles on the back of my hands
shaking, coming home from dancing.
not understanding kitchen from dining room.
“but I know you dance I read your poems!”
January does go on
louder than expected. my favorite waiterfetish
smiles and says hello from a ways away.
he is quick to differentiate “straight” from “not straight.”
the sun!
he might come down Prez weekend and we could
gallyvant off to Yosemite or something. work work work!
a note from Diane this morning
a fantasy/critical reading of a poem I mailed her
made me laugh hard and happy. dancing.
a clove of garlic discovered in the back corner of the
bread shelf behind the moldy bread.
the yellow teapot upside down in the dish drain.
a cool breeze through the kitchen window. the sun.
the taxi stopping a couple blocks early
and I didn’t know where I was.

dlviii

Exes.  Mine was a shih tzu in a dream last night.  But first
he bought rockets.  We’d been to the moon a couple of times already.
It frightened me to do so.  But he wanted to go again.
So he gets in his car and I get in mine.  And soon the ambulances
pass us by and soon again I’ve come upon a massively devastating pile-up!
I get out and look for his car.  It’s nowhere to be seen.  Dead bodies
are surely in each smoking vehicle.  The pine trees catch fire.
I can’t help anyone.  I’m chickenshit just like he always said.
I get back in my car and drive backwards, turn off at another road,
find his car parked at his house.  He’s asleep.  The new rocket’s in his backyard.
He’s a shar pei, asleep, face down, arms and legs out, flaps of wrinkled skin
going the various ways of gravity.  The dream ends somewhere.  I’m
home by 2:30 after crying on Divisadero with Nina Simone in my ears

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel...

dlvii

Hot Wheels in the breadbasket.

Clearer now, having closed the windows,
reading the same book from seven ages ago. I put on the headphones
and go to town.

Pepper, sage and fennel. The Fennelonians. I’ve been
reading too much. This leaves me sad while eating tofu.
Avidly, too.

Her only stance is abortion. I'm never okay with a dunderhead
for president. Changed my mind. The radiation begins soon.

His lips shake when he lifts his bowl. That’s what happens.

“Funky roast nasty rat.” A cute guy in a wheelchair told me I asked for it.
The plum trees are in bloom all along Lyon Street. Heard from behind me,
“I didn’t realize it was two words. Cast. Away.” Very serious-like.

Fennelicious.

My lungs hurt. I will look into potential gateways.
Ginger has a new computer so she tells me how the
farm has got to go. I’m working on the fourth dimension. Getting there. Slowly.

dlvi

I sit quiet
as a chameleon on Walden Pond.

The title is
Now Is Going to Take Some Time.

My passport arrives, along with some contact lens coupons.

Two iPods wake up on a marble slab. One iPod says to the other...

“I am liking the apocalypse.”

dlv

at lunch a twist of the tongue (gonute)
and then we walk the drizzle down Sacramento
in which we trust (view 125%) reading Jack’s poems
1:15am after Ativan nap (7 hrs)..

it is a she we see
in brevity

                  “Trent Reznor & Prince should definitely do an album together”

                   memories of the dead hawk

                  “Cowboys” right now

                   in this bogus California

my favorite waiter is here
and also a glimpse (pseglim) from Suzy
                                                                          wherever she may be

take a short breath
put down your blue and uncomfortable shoes
fold into the power crisis

                  he doused her with a flea dose

hey we need a mop
I tweazed your FCUK shirt up from behind the washers with two brooms
(it was the first one bitten from an apple)

dliv

Half here. Billfold on tablecloth. A bowl of
pink mums. Salt and pepper for a
glass of water.

The sea just filled up with dirt.
                 My poems did this to me.

The talking shadows of two men in silhouette.

They say:
“We posted better than expected profit in the first quarter”
“Helping lift net income to $4.8 billion.” and
“The Dow closed above 12,800 for the first time.”

(They don’t say:)
“The sun were the sun”
                            —Debussy, Rachmaninoff, and Berlioz

What do I say?

((I say this.))

dliii

“Why does he have to be so gay?” they say.
And honestly I don’t know.   Am I?


Sorry, but I was only namedropping.

dlii

Years ago, just like it was yesterday,
I caught a homeless man jerking off
in front of the Erotic Fantasy. This
meant that my soul would never
find its way back home again. You’d
want the rest of the story, but it gets
interrupted, like most things. Life
is complicated like that. So I keep
walking, looking in at the young
motorcycles and parachutes. Then, I
spot a bird. It is ever so slowly flying
in from a great distance until it wish
fully scoops me up and carries me
away to Shambhala. It’s loud here,
it makes me drunk. This, another
never-ending story with quite a lot of
dust and sadness exacerbated by
the stormy weather. Please come.
It was only yesterday I was taken up,
gently, by your cool metallic talons.

dli

It is never enough. Language
cannot accommodate and
we always know the story anyway.

We read, we write, and we eat.
Together and alone. Our many selves
commingling with the parting clouds

and tidewaters. It is clear to
no one and to all. I write. I stumble
and stutter. I have no

where and it is everywhere.
I wash dishes and pick up the
rest of the pieces. And me

a vegetarian. I always lose my
way. Sworn to the yellowed page.
Soldered to a lit wok. Somebody

(we, us, you, him, them, our
selves, the passing automobiles,
gold necklace, currency,

libraries, business cards, pumpkin,
gossamer hearts, plainspoken
words, diversionary tactics)

swaggers by a tall parking meter,
spits his gum out into a swollen
trashbucket. This, our mountain-esque.

d(e)l

My New Year’s resolution.
Fills to capacity.
He wouldn’t know a massacre if he saw one.
This cubicle in 1977.
Watching The Graduate.
To the symphony.
On the toilet.
Looking at the calves.
Wondering “Who invented this?”
Truth in advertising.
Never having been to Venice.
Watching the fireworks from Treasure Island.
Six years without a retreat.
Paris at 40.
My heart transplant.
Sometimes it comes too quickly.