dclxviii

A Beautiful Bed Of Moses

Now that I am 25% vested in my 401(k),
anthrax is killing D.C. postal workers.
Not good.

Poetry soiree, attend panel on
Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo,
poetry soiree, BART closure,
new coffeepot on Otto Brew,
running a race to cure breast cancer,
Golden Gate Park, Scarface,
Fallen Angels, Robinson Jeffers,
Larry Rivers, Gary, Tim, Jack.

Without a bridge I’m thinking I could
accidentally get stuck in East Bay.
Nah.

What, no women?

dclxvii

A Jog In The Heart

Eat peanuts when hungry (dates)
half the day for high anxiety
and Death of Mr. Lazarescu;
T-shirt that says “Hot Butter” and
big-hearted flamenco flower.

This little pigeon sees chic balcony
with bruised martini.   Your materials
inside out.

Glad that number’s over.

dclxvi

Turn to him, Rupert Murdoch

Something is wrong with my
heart—sees celery panties and
I sweep the floor (Kyger) out to
Bay Bridge (closed on Sunday)
while I buy Yoga for Dummies
and capitalism for my trip to the
naked hot springs (Harbin).

“Don’t you think I’ve been
several persons since you’ve
known me?” or still the same
all along.   Not feeling so
horrible but slept most of a
THIRTY-SIX HOUR PERIOD
(fears mostly).

What jerks men are sometimes
and not just in the 1960s.   Now look at us
slipping into regularity.

dclxv

In the fern bar, a hand tries a knee, as if unplanned.
                                                                             —Albert Goldbarth

“What kind of knives?”
“Just regular knives.   For chopping.”

Later, at the Genius Bar, I’m recommended
NeoOffice and VersionTracker.com—
both work like peaches.

Over Indian food at Gaylord,
much talk of depression and anxiety,
and the right pills for the jobs.

Two loads laundry.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti and leftover quiche,
Mulholland Drive and Pyaasa,
chewing gum, turning pages,
crack of dawn to dead of night.

dclxiv

Harps

Trumpets out each bay window.
And a glass of water (with cucumber).

I walk him downstairs
with a keyboard, hail him a cab.
He’ll play a few bars
(lemon and lime, ba-da-boom, etc.)

Harps!   My fingers bled each night
during rehearsal.   It doesn’t matter.
You still get played.

Sometimes it’s glorious.
Touch my skin
underneath this spot
where I shaved
and maybe someday they’ll find a tumor.
Read it aloud.

We’ve got medicine for that, too.

Angels’ wings draw nigh.
A new set in time for breakfast.

dclxiii

Polish your poems

Martin Munkacsi had tea
with his camera, shot Fred Astaire mid-air.   Bang.
Shot Lucile Brokaw running on the beach,
so fashionable, daughter of Irving Brokaw,
“Manhattan socialite and ice-skater,”
married to James Duane Pell Bishop,
“socialite rug company” employer.
Shot a bunch of kids in Germany at summer-camp, 1929—
they do look dead.   Fled Hitler’s Germany
for Harper’s Bazaar, etc.

Ninety degrees in October,
cool August breeze,
slip camera through hole in fence under Golden Gate Bridge
to snap its underbelly.

dclxii

Jet, far away, like a distant storm

If I could begin to have a conversation
with a poem—when I do
my mind wanders.   Poetry goes
someplace
between here and the howling moon.
Moons—
(a small dog with a loud bark!)

Take me out of this.

A walking moon, 1935,
alongside a skiff.   The gorgeous
shards of an automobile—

eleven mangled boats.

dclxi

I rebuke the concept of poem as child
with horrible, painful birth.   Oh, the stories!

But how random is life;
taking a cab to the Golden Gate Bridge,
searching for the right bunker.   Random!

He gave what I can only assume was
a guarded performance—
the right combination of seductive, pop,
nerviness, pause, and articulation (he had a cold,
kept sniffling).

This isn’t difficult.   Embrace life’s simplicity.   The cars
make their individual noises, one by one, up the hill.

“First rape, last rape,” thinks Viridiana.

Up every hill.

dclx

so what if my underwear is on backwards

today looks good
in a yellow shirt

clothes drycleaned
I’ll do this from now on

my new shoes are boats I trip on them all the time


part of the world are missing

2 new books from Zoland in the mail
and tonight sit quiet for
Sam Witt and Timothy Liu

5 miles in 20 minutes, down to 162 pounds

the wild happiness you hung up like cottage cheese
was never more than this

dclix

without a gimmick

with neither trend-setting nor trend-following
the show mush go on

as all the curb-sifters on Leavenworth know
on Saturday morning
looking for a small speck of fix

elsewhere on other streets: mull possibilities of New Places to live
either City or Country
also New Job somewhere

finishing the James White Review tribute to Joe Brainard
as more bombs dropped
on Afghanistan

Afghanistan

                                    looks funny

more bad karma:  his database crashes
so he downloads porn and wanks off
to keep from becoming too depressed

if
we all come down with anthrax
would be nice at least
to die without
a country

dclviii

jogging with meat in it

yesterday it was the butterfly bushes
(or beating the butterflies out of the bushes)

today it’s Chinese witch hazel
(because it’s red?)
swung like a censer next to the fencerow

close your eyes
and check for the grumbles

who’s for lunch?

“if you’re going to take her in on Saturday
you need to change the carpet appointment
which I was so excited about”

                                                                        and then the
jumbles which nobody even cares about
check them too

then let’s drive to Berkeley
and get naked with a 40-year old


but driving is the ultimate hassle

dclvii

Boxed in
like an island (“Is Cortez expensive?”)
on a hazy day.
The writing was good there.

Ruinations,
an entire section of a book
devoted to a mother’s date of death
(and comic strips).

The database is down!
Us too busy
to make words.
“What we have here,”

Mr. Rogers our President,
lined up
for the dawn,
“is a speck on the wall of fog,”

our heavy daily pudding.
“Cortez is too expensive!”
he says.
And squeezes the comic/book to death.

dclvi

the sunlit pier at 5:30am
a mugging

she has to be reading Jeffers

       jury duty hangover
       with glasses on


if this were only for me (Coco Loco!)
and he steps onto the treadmill

and he stinks


I’d be dreaming well past the new building blocking our view

dclxii (out of order / half forgotten)

Jet, far away, like a distant storm

If I could begin to have a conversation
with a poem—when I do
my mind wanders.   Poetry goes
someplace
between here and the howling moon.
Moons—
(a small dog with a loud bark!)

Take me out of this.

A walking moon, 1935,
alongside a skiff. The gorgeous
shards of an automobile—

eleven mangled boats.

dclv

where it come up

more than just another entry
no room to cut back

mugging into French
it hits home

the fog burning a fire into several buildings

clean as the ferry’s wake
                                                              as tilapia

dcliv

ripping the morning glories 3 times from the pot
                                                                                      —Joanne Kyger

Up Drunken Hill for blood sausage, yogurt soju,
and a Korean popstar all of sixteen....

Sorry I spilled your drink all over the gallery floor
and threw the keys into the blueberry pool

while watching Triste.   “You’re beautiful,”
he says to the moving pictures screen.

Then we slept extravagantly next to Duchamp
and the National Guardsmen.

{Next morning}

                        Five people dance into the elevator,
all thumbs and Blackberries.   “How fun

it was to see you last night!”   And I concur,
even at $12 apiece for Red Snapper

{a miniature Bloody Mary}.

Last night, after stepping out of the gym
into the bus, we had a spectactular lightning storm.

dcliii

Black-clad morsel

She can make it to Lee’s and back;
she has ten minutes.

A table full of mild acquaintances,
strangers no less.   Giddy sailboats

sail Transamerica on Montgomery;
turns out it’s just a “trade” consulate office,
so we can’t move to Canada today.

This is poetics?   It’s all about knee-jerking
war and romantic cravings,

Ghost Dog.   Leave it to
Beaver in his new outfit and

scrunchy-face.   How do they get it so smooth?
Such a tapestry, fomenting
solid left indent and

nonchalance, pools like thread.
Pick up the (virtual) iron-on

crossword puzzle
and spoon like a river.

dclii

Yesterday tickseed; today weigela.

Fog rolling over a wooden cross.
Fingers pulling at the sand.

Intermittent twittering.
Ephemeral silica.

Fuchsia! lagoon,
Carmel Beach Park.   Ocean,
she crashes (almost so distant as not to be heard—

the wasabi (a heron)
extremely effective (seaweed)—
(marry the land) where’d my

Where did my party invitation go
)
.

dcli

A collapse I am ready for.

Time-lapsed text message arrives:   “Sweet” —
that’s it for now.   Purchase new bed-linens

like we’re indeposable.   “When did you
start liking him anyway?”   That was the

nonsense part.   His films, “I’m nobody,
fucking jumpy with loud noises, man!”

Stomach sunk shaving his head
reaching down into the hole

may release inhibitions.   Is our
economy collapsing like pancakes

makes me want to gag too.

dcl

The people who do r money

are not related to Rosie O’Donnell
and haven’t been fed 12 oz. pitted dates
and 1 qt. tomato juice from concentrate
in bed with two personal handheld devices.

Thy will etc. finishing
J Spahr and steamrolling into
J Kyger at Quetzal with _______
who needs to iron down his butt-snaps.
We like him anyway.

Tomato juice from concentrate at
8:38pm (‘BEB’ upside down)
with prosperity candle.

Rosie with spandex
drumming it up for Cyndi
on every nostalgic freeway but my own.

Hello from a little bar called Hell.
Add margarita get horny
attend poetry reading (maybe last one ever)
and move to Canada.

Unless I get naked first.

It’s called Skylark.
Jazz playing in the background.
U drive your SUV into my motorcycle.
Dimlit candle with a little R-O-M-A-N-C-E.

dcxlix

An ounce of self-doubt (hardly)
in Spokane.   Raw tuna at the
Samovar.   PROPHECIES
getting back to normal (he had
his palm read but he can’t
tell me about it).   I’m going
to move to Montreal.   Scrub
windowsills, dust, polish.
Meet up for chips and salsa
(he’s been so cold
it makes me miss the snow).