Tuesday, August 29, 2017



                      c  I
                      i   I
                      p  I
                          I   c
                          I   l
                          I   i
                          I   p


I’m Taking This Nipple With Me

This convention paperwork
is for the birds.  But the
birds are mine. So.  Well,

here I am, once again, in the
middle of a conversation
in which all words are neutral.

I remember political correctness.
I was arrogant enough to be in-
credibly annoyed by it, this im-

perative residue of bigotry; of
any civil rights progression.
“Aren’t we over the need

for this nonsense?  Aren’t we
well beyond this?”  I would
argue. I certainly believed

that I was.  “And who wants
homogenization, anyway (ex-
cept in milk…)?”  Today, that

naïveté churns my gut.  Love
exists and exits as if it were
too invaluable to even knock

on your door.  Not every word
is a lie (another subject), a con-
descension; every utterance

does not derive from malicious
intent.  These tits were made
for walking, I surmise.  And

every single word is one
hundred percent neutral.

Sunday, August 27, 2017


I Talk Too Much

Meanwhile, there was
one stolen backpack.
Three and a half months.
Would this be funny from
any perspective? Can time
exist long enough for some-
one to discern?  All I can see
is what is no longer, until I
then lose sight of what I had
(in actuality: days ago, month
ago, years ago). And who I was.
Who I am? Who am I? A reminder
pops up on my tiny computer screen,
(which is my iPhone, where I currently
type this. My only computer.):
Manicure.  Where on earth did that
come from, I wonder.  See? I have
forgotten nail salons, bars, night
clubs, dancing (?!), being casual,
the joy of working (yes, in producing
paid work I know joy!). “You get to
completely start over; reinvent!”
But why is that a positive thing,
exactly?  And how many times must
I begin again (please never like this,
if so!)….  One might say any singular
moment poses such a grand (grand-
iose) opportunity. One might say that.

Saturday, August 26, 2017


Negative Space

2 iPhone 6
cellphones – each
less than one
month old

a couple of

two terabyte

drives; one w/

a lifetime of


(and most all if it
paid for) music

and the other
w/over 100 yrs

of digital (the
older ones


scanned from

originals) photos

a large black

rolling suitcase

(unknown brand)

which contained

all items stolen

during 1st robbery

all 5 bottles of my

prescription meds

which could not be

refilled soon enough

for the furniture move

to the storage unit

2/3 of everything

accrued over a life-
time — of which the
13 most recent yrs 

were spent on Nob
Hill at an apartment
I called home — 
where, during my scheduled

attempt to remove my 
belongings, I was ass-
aulted by the apt mgr

(who refused to allow
me to go
to the emer-

gency room—because 
it had all become way 
too much for me to handle)

various clothes, inc
many t-shirts, dozens

of coats and jackets,

the beautiful table

from the kitchen,

as well as my old-

est piece of furniture,

the marble table in

the hallway, well over

a hundred works of art,

one large box of memo-

rabilia w/items from most
every year of my life

3 door-drops of shoes,

all of which fit me, inc

several pairs of work/

dress shoes, the loss

of which would be

the source of severe

blisters for two months

one 10-yr-old cat named

Coco the Loco, who, like

me, had lived for over

a decade in an apart-
ment (#35) at the

intersection of

Pine & Mason,

San Francisco,


         Be happy, and/or RIP, dear Coco the Loco (2007-2017)

Monday, August 21, 2017


Well, if you are going to go to the
trouble of chivalrously beating up a guy –
or flat-out attempting to break your
arm over his head – you should break
your arm over his head.  Or something.
What’s a pacifist to do when someone
stands up for you like that; when some-
one is such a sweetheart?  We must really
love liking one another.  “I really like you.”
“I really like you, too.”  Or something.  With
your proclamation you probably placed your
hand neither firmly nor gently on the cheek
of my ass.  I dramatically squeezed my face
and attempted a show of shock with “You’re
crazy!”  There are moth-eaten ways in which
we do love each other without trust.  Everyone
here is a hustler.  Trust is not an option.  Like?
Love?  It is not reduction to call these words
quite inevitably “relative” (as they say).  Who
took whose whatever is one of the very few
possible headlines you might find in the morn-
ing, or whatever time you read (if you do, in-
deed, read). The other main topic is bedbugs. 
This one took up an entire ‘resident’s monthly’
A couple of weeks ago.  It was the only one
I have attended thus far, and likely will re-
main so.  It is advised to maintain an unidenti-
fiable sexuality.  Doing this eliminates a good
portion of deleterious attitude.  So, for ex-
ample, when a sexuality clue to the contrary
happens to be dropped during casual convers-
ation, especially among three or more people
at once, there is a great risk of torture and/
or death. To reiterate, it’s of grave import to
remain straight, even if you happen, on occasion,
to feel otherwise.  Keep in mind that anyone
you pass in the shelter hallway or at the cafeteria,
anyone casually walking by your bunk bed of a morn-
ing or evening, will (most often silently) be taking tabs.
The mental notes are easy enough that one can be
entirely comfortable with them within very short
measure(“Normal, normal, he’s okay, normal, he’s
straight, this guy must not be because I’ve yet to
reach a clear conclusion, normal, normal, gay” etc.) 
Other words can be substituted for the word “gay,”
but whichever your choice, it is imperative that ones
jaw is squarely clinched, teeth nearly grinding into a
powder on the tongue and lower lip, whether tabulating
aloud or silently.  Just bear in mind that tabulation is
always of the utmost import.  After completely missing
my hero break his arm over the bigot’s head, defending
the existence of myself and of my particular sexuality,
I didn’t feel very normal; not very straight at all. And
me, an utter pacifist.  “That’s some chivalry,” I say,
directly to my hero’s broken arm.  “Well, it’s only
two thousand dingledy-dings for fuck’s sake,” the
arm’s face replies – a face which, as if only just
noticing it, is so much more beautiful than
I’d ever previously imagined it to be.

Saturday, August 19, 2017



Lousy little
creative growth.
socks.  A box of
incorporation (Inc.).
Inject uptight
swan song
reading.  Don’t
mention poetry

Friday, August 18, 2017


Get it through mind,
into head cavity by way of
whatever means, that this is
not a play by Edward Albee.
You are living socially, awkward
and loud. “Oh, lord, be you bene-
volent, malevolent or irrelevant, 
I want no drama, nothing more to 
diminish respect. No more begging.”

Then it’s to bed. I’m on the top
bunk, so nothing unusual because I
am a top, with eyes on the ceiling,
through which the moon is pregnant
and orange; gorgeous. I know
because I ran into a tree earlier
attempting to ponder the pregnant
moon while simultaneously walking.
Was it because I am a man? Or just plain
clumsy?  Don’t answer at 9:30pm, after
I snap at the moon because I bumped into
A  tree. The tree, unpriedictably, painfully,
was in the throes of a winter snap. Is this my
home?  Or is it somebody else’s habitat?
It is the future of habitats, and

Bruce Willis finds himself in the
grips of a robotic and foreign
actress who dares to steal every
scene from Bruce.  She chews
through the movie with a big wig
that is reminiscent of a particular
decade. And of robotic women, with
whom it is apparently impossible
not to fall madly in love. I know
that I did. Fall, that is.
I am terribly clumsy.
And while I rarely look back, unless

In order to view and critique the
now; to readjust, to remap.  I have
always loved the period wig atop
her robotic and unsurprisingly
magical head.  And Bruce, moonlit
Bruce, is no exception. Like many
who have come before him, he is
motivated to save the world simply
because of this love.  Saving the
world for love sounds aspirational.
But it also seems like a terribly
cloudy, illogical thing to do.

Thursday, August 17, 2017


     …the heartbeat
     is  strange
     disaster, it is an owl, lost
     in a naked uninhabited

          —from “Wolfman”
              by John Thompson


     To pretend
     things do not
     become rabbit
     is a misreading
     of a saint.

          —Eva Marie Bunnyrabbit

Monday, August 14, 2017


         what if buses were
                 art gorillas?
                    —a misreading of an SFMUNI 
                        bus advert that pondered 
                        what if buses were art galleries?

This used to be a fun-
house. At least it was
until I canceled those
two phone numbers.

They were partial any-
way: 501, 617, 419, ex-
tension ZERO for the
receptionist  !!!  !!!

Utilizing this process of
elimination, we speed to-
ward bifurcated hugs &
nonexistent tongues (xo/

xo!): if either of you feel
like lending a finger or two
(in any way whatsoever),
and are able to do so,

now is the time to do it....
3 top hats atop 3 top heads
around 3/4 of the perimeter
of a rectangle (our be-

loved trailer) are my drum-
set and their impermanent
location. The anxiety of an
extended drum-roll; the tur-

moil of same disappearing into
subtext. Or the sandwich left
as a tip, so very rare for
such a percussive snare!

After three years of whatever
was (which, to me, at least,
was) utter turmoil, I recant
the earth, I recover, I wake up.

Friday, August 11, 2017



a whole

u r

w/ 200
ly have

no other

Thursday, August 10, 2017



You shouldn't
have eaten


Should you
have really
eaten Grand-
father's elephant?
Of course you
you wretched
single lot!