Thursday, April 28, 2011


An Alliance of Motives

But I want to know how you
got to the baguette.   Transition
is key.   Deign not to eliminate

Multiple Frasiers.   So he can
get his hair done.   Saturday.
Together and out of town.
Giant morsel of sun.

Driving down.   Backtrack.
An orange chair on his
chest.   2 or 3 chances
for memory.

Into plushed.   We shall
seem.   Out of town.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Good Gracious, Glasnost
(or Thanksgiving on the Baltic)

      Dutch trains like spectacles of insecurity.
                                     —D.W. Lichtenberg

I was closed Wednesday and
discovered getting to a top on
Nob Hill.   Delirious down Hyde
and specifically the part where we

were hanging off a cable car to
get back and deciding maybe
friends would take us there.   Are
you off?   I’m so off.   And so

off we went.   Used to be a word
(pleasant) always meant I should
take a big bite out of him.   Eating
flesh knows the future, or so my

cookie likes to say.   Reading this,
I know, zombies.   So tonight we
take his request.   Talking pictures
with lots of spots, or so suggests

my nephew (He’s all strapping
now, often shirtless.   How simple
we must have been!).   Anyway,
on a whim we fly into a couple of

kitchens in Santa Cruz, fall in love
all Swedish.   It’s like how many
months of this happening?   I
know, but don’t forget:

we all get 2 or 3 chances
on the RSVP.   So today
I’m on a boat to the Spilled
Blood to praise be.   Ah, men.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Sonnet for Sainthood

Magically demented, electro-
magnetic.   But don’t rock the
boat?   Our era-less scene, to
which I return for a turn-on.

Note not to use the word war
nor disbelieve when someone
picks up a rock and hands it
over as a gift.   Seek abhor-

rence.   More at shock.   Not
like that, though.   Come up
from behind like energy.   A
wave of something undisc-

overed.   A fortune in shale,
nor molten obsidion / glass.

Monday, April 25, 2011


In this I am person.

In this way I am old-fashioned.   I am
having a blast but I’m missing my people.

People?   I was not the one who said vacation
is not vacation if you internet.   Close fists on

thumbs; vacate.   Feel my heart to see.   So
there is no shame in awake.   Start renew, with

little fists of a sentence.   Here I am again.   A
clump of dust caught in a cloud.   Enjoy the bit

about things.   About almost not at all.   Cling
but for a second or two.   Marry.   Get even.

Saturday, April 23, 2011


Try It On Again

Music bubbles on your noggin.   Iced up
grouse, good at Birdhenge.   January
on the South Beach Diet?   Remind
me to say this sometime:

         This is the best
         I’ve ever been.

         While you’re
         getting famous

         I’m getting

Easter it ain’t.   This hunk of sound a dis-
proportionate secret.   Scribble all night
you Nightscribbler.   Go to Bahamas and
smoke clasped ears with safety pins.

Friday, April 22, 2011


Russian Sonneteer

What do I do but on and on.
Heaven.   Remember when?
I arrived so obvious, dirt of
Russia.   Show up a skeptical

blot.   Honestly my love is
food.   Somewhere afterwards
eternally.   Relax as it comes.
Re-right it and lose 25.   Of

nuclear rays in tiny golden-
rod garden.   Spec blue and
looks great.   Take it as it
comes and in the right di-

rection Heaven.   Re-member
dirt of the obvious, skeptic.

Monday, April 18, 2011


Slowly to Estonia

Bang around a hollow.   Roiled
in on itself.   Listening to a lot of
strings.   Many are trifles.   Tour

requires two hours of walking
on cobblestone streets but gays
like to cycle (see “sold out”).

Speak as if people are paying
attention.   This is what happens
when you take yourself seriously.

Saturday, April 16, 2011


lightness under curled vapor
                —Barbara Guest

The joke that I am straight
has gone on long enough.
I never paid the two crowns
I owed the photocopier.   He
calls me psychiatric help.   I
said that sounds like a strap
in the right direction.   Can’t
say I wasn’t cautiously ec-
static.   We talk for a while
about rewriting history.
Seems overly possible in
context.   Taut come-ons.
Later, maybe 11 years I
guess, I couldn’t resist.
For posterity.   But
I did anyway.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Thursday, April 14, 2011


...impending in that it ‘could be’...
not that it isn’t already...

...upon closer inspection, we’re
always in the in-between... transition and this us

...windmills ashore...cautiously

...after telling me yesterday...I am

lacking us...confidence...tragic-
omic...on the verge of...

...among other things...

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


        dealt a rat lust
            —Barbara Guest

You’re unplayed to the hilt.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011


...and create...a larger lather in a
rather lithe lager...nevertheless
it is sumptuous...and...

...this is the story of my life... I am out into the into
and it is good...craggy luggage
hangs from rafters...

...every artist should be studied
within the context of her

glands...rude men bear arms...

...topsy-turvy gleanings of neo-

numb impending...with regard
to recent moonlight...

...I resent the moon...I stole
it in a beer-mug and give
it to you now...I...

...I could go on becomes
I could go...

Monday, April 11, 2011


Whore o’ the Sea

I’m just trying on
the shape of it. Or
what’s that word

I’m doing, taking
tooth for lips, re-
describing purple,

whirring sticker-
shock into narrative?
Nothing in a week

and a half of sour
until   “Morning?” (he
writes).   “Seems to me

you’re a guy likes to
breathe”   (hot / stone).
“I’d do more if I were

you”   (each / stab).   His
next exit makes outer
space a piece of cake.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


The Spoken Fish

I took the liberty of waking up at
2:37am.   It’s gonna go by so fast.

I’m thirsty, bring me a towel.
Proving to myself that I’m very

set in my ways.   In formal dress
domestic remarks reel into a corpus

known as stanzas
(B. Guest).   I
ate a pear – or – I thought about

eating a pear.   The first phrase, be-
ing fiction, begs what is thought?

Be, I guess.   And what to do with
all of the love
.   As I slip into sense,

there are three items of fruit on a
table to my left.   Taking an elegant

knife into its plump, green-dimpled
dress, a drippy red blotch of moon,

which portion of the world am I?

Saturday, April 09, 2011


                        there is no sailing but into marmalade

                                                      in a time of marmalade.

                                                                  —Gerrit Lansing

Is it Thursday or Friday?   Is it the weekend?
I dunno.   Lots of talking.   Thank goodness.
Sort of.

And here (interested in spending weekend,
Napa, Russia mebbe) and that.
Somewhere on Saturday night,

emailing all the time, a friend, SFMOMA.
Not the answer.   I lost.

Blue jeans, emotional.   “Constantly running up
explosive personal debts” (Paul Hannigan).

All I can say on that right now.   Guy still works.
Which if you ask some people is part of a problem.

Then Mel’s.   He knows more than most.   For
certain.   Cute, huh?   Or “You would not
want to meet a nicer woman.”

Sort of.   A heart bigger than a sleeve of advert-
isement.   Sympathy notes?   That’s not the

I kinda wanna be celibate but who knows?
It’s too chilly to sit on this parkbench.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011


          A long flat makes you feel
          like a gypsy pygmy.

                              —Paul Hannigan

So stress...feeling relative...week.
Last night...looks great...fuck again.
Him’ miserable...make me...
feeling.   Well, no—

Food for thought...seeming so...
loins.   The tilt of the ship.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011


A bird is flying into a golden age.
The phrase “think tank” and the
word “tanka” make me think
“tank top” – do me wrong?

New dogma years are upon us,
right?   His email address arrives.

Monday, April 04, 2011


Greetings from Inertia

I only wanted a capful of your
muck.   The funk of it keeps me
wound for days.   Woo’d as I was
in Borup, yet a pimple of a bump
kin, a plebe for life; a lifer.   I mean
it, this drivel campaign.   It’s not a
thing that scars, like a dimple of
soul.   Only the musk of its shadow
and your pink essay appliqué.

Sunday, April 03, 2011


His passion for abstraction is gripping
                                          —Barbara Guest

I have too arrival.   Smack against
olive India this cote is Wayned.
Desire has so little to do with de
stiny.   Except that I made it up-
hill endive and mispounced.

Ringsted.   Reflect invective.

But I didn’t come to swan.   Only
to fair leavened Heather and her
flagpole.   Strip bare the Danish
opening and tsk tsk.   Rather out
of the stinker than into a moil.

Saturday, April 02, 2011


Passing Korsør

This is the highway to pizza.   Plush,
auburn pastures and a calamity of
windmills.   A proclivity is not a

Jayne Mansfield needs a girdle,
what of it?   I’ve a purple flowering
of the elbow.   Each bouquet –
when compressed (or expressed) –
tethers into a smirk.

Lavender Fusili

Friday, April 01, 2011


“This is destruction.”   Graffiti
on the downgrade.   Here’s a
train thru Denmark, a town of
some size you never hear about.

“Fuck 42.”
Good thing I’m 43 and gay.
“Prik” gets around.   Each
pink flag a dithering swath.

The rain’s gone; Odense
against a big, lazy bruise.
A purple-tinged heart
with “SOS” all over it.