dccclii

Who’s archiving this?

In the town of your house,
what kind of woman (the man)
it probably is to be?

Pictures of Yves St. Laurent
with a babe on each arm.
It’s like a death watch over here!

When the classmate and that person
who always passes each other,
that woman who is always happened to see
            by the streetcar and the bus (the man),
            normally it has lived,
            the woman lifetime probably to go round, (the man).

                         Roger Dodger!

Please input metropolis
(I should have seen it coming
       every day with
            “Don’t think things look promising”
      “breakdown of sorts” “not really feeling it”)

and districts deme town village and search [purohu].

(The bird in the purple/
gets blinded/ don’t move your eyes/
the wind lisps/
                              music from Mexico)

I eat these chips too fast.

Your future starts moving just a little.

dcccli

Calm down.

Tomorrow’s birthday
on the beach with tall
bronze-dipped what’s-
his-name on Treasure
Island. Short cocoa-
lipped fella concurs
(or so his lips...). Aw,
mug me already. Br
eakdown at Pall
adium on Satur
day night.
Right.

dcccl

There are so many things I could get into.

But chiefly I refer to variations in brilliance.
                                                     —Jeni Olin

(Arguably the most innocuous of her lines, but....)

With poems called “Xanax” and “Vicodin”.

Let’s just spend the entire poem talking about it.

Mike says that Randy died.  In his sleep,
heart problems.  And Mike was in the hospital his
self this summer, something about heart rhythm,

so he doesn’t drink or smoke any more,
just one mugga joe a day.

Drifting...

Tomorrow I’m having drinks on the patio of
The Gap Corporation with Otto, Sean and Kim.

Today I have energy.  Unpolluted energy,
or so I like to think (fish oil pills, One-a-Day for Men).

My ears are giving me problems, however.
Maybe the dryness of the apartment.

And last night
I dreamt I was heading deep down into a cave to live.
My family (a generation ago?) had lived there before.

I was told there would be electrical outlets
if I looked hard enough for them.

But I couldn’t get a Wi-Fi connection.

Drifting...

Fall in love with a poet just to prove your
good judgment errant (done went wrong).

dcccxlix

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dcccxlviii

California offers such a variety of climes;
in one simple swath a glimpse of what would
naturally be each individual season in Arkansas
or Boston. We almost had summer in San Jose

night before last. Earlier in the day it was clearly
autumn. I didn’t actually see a snowflake,
but still. Waters run deep. No pun intended
here, just trying to get at the hazy borders between

the jagged (or lopsided) clouds and the sky this
somewhat steadfast Monday. Reading about
movies I don’t remember and taking old flames
out to lunch (“he doesn’t talk much”).

Allergies this morning. A raucous weekend
(wreaking havoc) on the brain. Still
waters run deep. This has never been said
of me. Nothing complex here. Only more

poems. Pulitzer Prize winners. June arrives,
almost perky. The stapler is mouthing off
at the tape dispenser, and a little curl of sweat
forms between my neck and shirt-collar. The

cool air numbs my tongue so that I am given to
dampened chortles at the drive-in cinema. I grab
an oar and beat the living daylights out of the
jacuzzi. Kelsey Grammer has a mild heart attack.

dcccxlvii

I grinned at you?
Probably.
You were staring at me in the dark.
I thought it was an invitation.
Drinks at Lucky 13.
Went home sotted
with a new t-shirt
and a Polaroid camera.
Then the truth comes out
like bad seed.
“Hi.” “Hello.”
What?
Oh that’s just the world
turning upside down.
I wave through the window.
You wave through the window.
We start laughing,
waving through the window,
unleash the fire
that rends it all to ash.

dcccxlvi

Lawn of rhyme

But am I optimistic?
I like to think.
The pages of a much-relished book
drawn to its close. Something I
take a break from
just for a little more time. My
heart hurts. Perhaps it’s gas,
and I get this now and again,
but like today,
sometimes enough to worry.
Will I wake tomorrow?
Why should I be anything but
grateful. Life is good,
no matter what the pundits say.
I pick the book back up
and here’s another poem,
short,
and not until the end
do I realize it’s in rhyme,
ABABCC. I reread it
and listen to the white noise
hovering over this
all-too-depleted workspace.
Work is what (albeit oft as
redundant as rhyme
and riddled with an anxiety
almost as good as death’s)?
Nothing so good as a
few words pertaining to
nothing at all, a diversion,
two solid panes
between me and the
aquamarine delusions
of the bay on a summer’s
day. As always, I’m
making too much of it. I’ll
be here again tomorrow,
mowing the same grass,
whiling away the hours
in my aspic-colored slacks.

dcccxlv

Wrangling with myself over feelings.

So I like him a lot and really love

the sex his face holding his hands.

Downing a hatchet would be like

eating an ax.   He doesn’t want to be

figured out.   Blue haze a face could

do better than forget.   I should.

Get up at 5am tomorrow morning my

favorite time to walk the city especially a

Sunday.   The approach is honesty like

dancing with Church & Market

for a frozen cosmo (our usual place).

Go home fall alseep and stay the night.

Dream in Polish (not Russian).   I’ve

been walking to & from work/home

every weekday now several years.

Have been listening to the music

of the city in every state.   Dank

late May fog morning or

Mondays in January the rain

washes the weekend off

the back-alley eaves of

Chinatown.

dcccxliv

                                 the axman came
                                      —August Kleinzahler

Oh, to be attached as the grounds turn sausage.

“You’d better hope he has a crush on your beard.”
“But I like to know whose ass I’m chewing on.”

Sweet.

Sweet to be attached; a bit of a tango,
spooky, creepy, goose pimply, and then...

the axman came.

We fell apart at the seams as oh,

but he came. And he came and he came.
And he came and he came and he came.

dcccxliii

Opening Day at
fog’s bearded back
Bill’s new book w/
wine on Jim & Ivan
yes of course we’re
interesting (a white
boat sings on the
grizzled horizon) –
& my headache –
I don’t know
what I’ll step into
at 41 (nor what I
just stepped on)
but I breathe
a dragon’s breath
upon a singeless
hummingbird
atwitter with
happy endings
both blatant
and discreet
[
groove back in
Mister Fog
]
whilst with my
scissors slice
bloopers thru yr
ratty knots

dcccxlii

what a weekend.   began Friday night with a double date
(two dates in one night).   poetry gossip
“welcome to the board”.   quaint Salvadorean restaurant
followed by an oyster bar.   Thomas Crown Affair
(new version).   on my own again Sunday morning wake-up
started these new combines (RIP Robert Rauschenberg)
from 1996 diary entries & what’s going on out my window.

sweltering San Francisco.
itchy beard.   cool fan.
cut a swath through the city
in new shoes (Financial District,
Tenderloin, Civic Center,
Hayes Valley, NOPA...)

home sails slump against his mouth.

instead of fighting for gay marriage, we should be fighting
the state’s stranglehold on the marriage business and
putting our energy into altering the mainstream american
mindset, so that ALL people can live how they choose
without judgment or reprisal.
                                                                      –Curran Nault

where all have you lived
and when you are in such a prison
are you encouraged to be so serious?

chat at Film Yard
then to Burger Joint on
Haight for lunch then
Castro Street Fair lots of
drinks on the streets
hold hands smooch
and shower but
seriously.

the new sincerity.

dcccxli

hot today / hot elysian summer

“When’s the last time you saw
an Eagle snack?”

“And what, pray tell,
was the pig doing in the
Black Forest anyway?”

“Hello?”

“I would like a pickle.”

“But mostly, I would
just like a hug.”

“Mick Jagger.” (onscreen)

“Or if it were a concert of rollercoasters

                            that might be fun.”

dcccxl

Squarely at odds
with the lip of this notebook.
Boy, I’m sluggish.
Thought I’d tell a story
about the breeze on my face,
a San Francisco breeze
that “rekindles the spirit” —

I,
the story,
like a husk of a man,
slept all weekend with fever.
Apparently, he really likes me.
I can’t tell a story.

Don’t open up.
Walk on.

dcccxxxix

Flying Up Into Some Sort Of Oasis

Growing variably
awkward, old, dirty,
and itchy. I wanted
a new look and
I got it. Haven’t
written in weeks.
Apologies.

dcccxxxviii

You’d think he’d become more prolific with age.

Then maybe I would lighten up to the tarot
but now I’m using a book.  This month ends on Wednesday.
Fantasize these cutesy mechanisms keeping us awake.

If you’d rather not receive future emails of this sort
please opt out here.    I stayed home for this?  Large-
scale vomit.  I feel like I read you before.

“Prolific little bastard, aren’t you?” says Tod Something-or-Other
as he’s cleaning up my computer files how-many-odd years ago.

Never deny the homosexuality of criticism.

I need to ask Otto if this is perhaps bitter melon.
I thought it was cucumber,
boiled it and put it on top of the rice, next to some baked chicken.
Otherwise it may be a vegetable gone very bad.  But it’s too late,
I’m eating it.    He writes me

two emails daily.  Sweet ones, little out-of-English,
but spry.   I find I want him.   Regularly.

Racquetball Sunday.   Bottoms of my soles are bruised.

dcccxxxvii

Literary theory is definitely not a priority.

The heel of the shoe works much better than the toe.
I think I read that page already. Time to transfer
$500 from one account to another.

Did I mention I’m on page 2000?! Let me
show you my world. Leaning on the bathroom sink
reading a few poems,
listening to the birds beyond the opaque window.

Smell of detergent (Tide with hint of Downy) on my fingers.
Hungover at Tony’s. Happy anniversary on Friday morning.

Said hello on the sidewalk. Shook his hand.
He seemed happy I remembered him. I love
the feel of his hands and arms.

dcccxxxvi

My Priorities

Not museums.
I can’t get there.
I’m on the board.

The carpet needs vacuuming.

I walked twice to Japantown
or three times in two days.
I’ve seen seven movies in five days.

Lending itself to artificiality.

Never having been thrown out of
anyplace for sexual activity.
Eating a sandwich.

Nuclear holocaust or the denial of politics.
Postcards. A warm we don’t often get.

dcccxxxv

I make the decisions. Decide to pour coffee.
Pour coffee. 9:10am.

I try to imagine a thunderstorm.

Those few words that make me think less of you.
A broken button. Your excuse for
having no emotion.

Bright clear day. I could learn to surf.
One doesn’t think me graceful, right?

She REALLY worked the draft she showed me the other day.

dcccxxxiv

It’s the work. I can try to answer your questions
placing one shoe on each page. It’s kind of cold.
Some books I don’t understand. So I drink.

Here comes the trash man. It’s a lovely day.
I can try to answer your questions. I’m on number 4.

I’m still cold and I can hear the Playstation 3
breathing. Sirens above automobiles. Doves,
motorcycles and eucalyptus branches swing.

Reading bad books is okay for the patient.
Everything is a truism. The coffee gets cold.
It’s work. Moss takes over. Some final questions?

I couldn’t see you because of the horndogs of
inevitability. See, I’m quoting myself. The
confused pigeons walking around concreted azaleas.

STOP
I’ve already done
comfortable.

dcccxxxiii

Moving Day

I promise to stay sane and nice.
I’m at Lucky Penny.
Marge isn’t here.
More Schuyler poems on the bus-ride,
last day at our old place. Guess
we’ll come back sometime during the week
to clean up and walk thru with the manager.
In 2 months I’ll be on the train to Boston
and New York again. I hope by that time
this heaviness has lifted.
Maybe,
yes.

dcccxxxii

I remember getting lost in an ivory tower

30 years ago July
Philip Whalen
watches the waterfall
“(more accurately, ‘water curtain’)
[i]n Beale St. PGE”
directly across the street
from where I work—

same water curtain
I pass heading to get
Sushi B from
Tokyo Express
or, today, for me,
Dragon Roll Special

dcccxxxi

$1.00 finance charge
on top of $1.75
when I thought balance was
PAID IN FULL!

A crow calls.
Where is it?

Coal Miner’s Daughter
plays – the last movie
I’ll see here
(except one half of
Nashville).

A boy with a basketball
hits all his hoops,
his hair sways
aptly. Two ball guys (bald)
at the other end
having fun even.
Sunbird.

I don’t care
about the air,
the turbine
or foghorn
repeats itself,
I breathe it in
as petals litter
the hilltop like
snowflakes.

Eucalypts, brie
and crackers. A
calm breeze
turns the page.