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)
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.
Across the cheekburns owing that debt. The luxury of the 15-minute condo haircut (counting the walk to and from). Regulated fog. Decrepit. Plus we’re going to Spain next year. I mean Italy. I mean Hong Kong I mean Japan. How to feel good. How to know what I feel. How to love. How to share. How to be serious. How to question everything and write a full page of erotic text. Enjoy the same skill-set (what a f#$koff word). How to pay money. No pay real money. Waiting for the tenant to sign. They all think I’m a big jerk. “Clowns live forever.”
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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’ve 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, a little out-of-English, but spry. I find I want him. Regularly.
Racquetball Sunday. The bottoms of my soles are bruised.
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.
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.
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
