(the first of a set of poems the titles of which are taken
from a decal from a page of “STICKERS” with “man of the house affirmation phrases” [my words] in Stephen Colbert’s
I Am America And So Can You)
I must tell you this before you slip on the parquet slathered in butter and break your entire ass: Politics sucks! It was the era when politics sucked more than usual. Summer in the South when wasps and hornets built their nests out your bedroom window and you were mesmerized by it all. And that’s when the realization occurs: we each bring some- thing of (relative) relevance to the table, should we de- cide to arrive at it. And no matter the number in attend- ance at the table, each one- on-one engagement that trans- pires there is every bit as unique as we each are.
[interlude: whilst several poems are lost and some of them are found again and edits are actually made, and, and...]
Yes. I know. I talk entirely too much. I always have. Too many words. Words and words and words and words. Thank you for not telling me to shut up (this time). A million times thank you. Brave words, all.
I CAN BE MY OWN BOLINAS (Walking from ‘home’ to the intersection
of Klonopin & Malice Cooper)
I’m stepping over a mint-green pill on the sidewalk on the way to my doctor’s office (located on Capp Street around a block from the 16th Street BART Station). My appoint- ment is with Dr. Sheran, the doctor I had for the year (that ended 7 months ago) in which I was on Medi-Cal. I have visited regularly, especially since medical benefits are about the best possible thing that can come from homelessness,
at least as far as I can tell. It’s called
Mission Neighborhood Resource Center
and is a free clinic for folks such as my
self (who are generally free from
finances for such things as residences
and medical visits).... I’m on one of the
three or four versions of Medi-Cal that
can be assigned to folks with the freedom
aforementioned here in San Francisco. Con- fusing, but nevertheless the absolute best part about being jobless and homeless
here, covering most medical issues I’ve encountered since being ‘free’ enough to get this perquisite. The
bias and condescension by many
medical staff who have helped me
to be on my healthy, happy way has been free, as well, but these things
are mostly from emergency room visits,
in particular to St. Francis, a few blocks
from where I lived for 16 years before
being evicted from my lovely home;
things like severe panic attacks, or the bout with pneumonia I slammed into last October, during which time I was sunk into my shelter cot (#13, top bunk, middle of room that holds nearly a hundred men at night),
stuck for nearly a month, barely crawling down to even eat. During that time someone stole my wallet and my phone from the very bed in which I slept; a common occurence, and one of a few common occurences which have kept me from obtaining solid employment. These are things that pass swiftly and cinematically through my head as I head to my check-up, which, I can happily report, led
to my very first dental exam and cleaning
in nearly a decade. And, along with that, purportedly to be coming soon, my first eye exam. It has been years.
Which could mean a new pair of glasses for me (exciting!), and I have not worn, new or old, any glasses, at least with real lenses, in several years. A pair looks appropriate for interviews, in my opinion, which I hope that I will be participating in again soon (I need a
job-search worthy smartphone, which,
thanks to a few gracious folks, should
also be arriving in short measure). I
could use anything that might possibly
give me a bit of added panache, because
my recent experiences at trying to imp-
ress have been less than impressive, and I must impress, need intensely to impress. So it would appear that
a thing such as a pair of glasses, at least in my world now, has become even more important than it used to be, at least as concerns my thus
far nearly three decades-long career. So, I shall have my eyes tested at Zuckerberg San Francisco General Medical and Trauma Center, a name which, sounds oddly like home to me. Most folks around here still call it, simply, “General” — like the few holdouts who go to Pac-Bell Park to see their Giants play - a park that has had new names for over a decade now. All this is
on my mind now as, on the corner
of Mission and Duboce, I step over
a blister-packed Klonopin, a drug
I’ve never been prescribed. So
how do I feel sure about what it is over which I step? I catch myself mumbling an answer of sorts, something about how it’s simply one of those odd and mostly unnecessary things one picks up in my particular world, I suppose. Dur- ing those moments when I find myself more curious than depressed or anxious. As I step over the pill, briefly considering picking it up (which I do, but then quickly
trash it), I notice that across Mission, at the
Brick & Mortar (a venue at which I have
seen a performance or two, eons ago (with
long ago friends who now only exist in my
head, present-day ghosts about whom I often
wonder but from whom I never get an unsolicited
word). The marquee reads “Malice Cooper” and it
gets me to wondering what kind of performance
this Malice Cooper might present to the probably
now absurdly to me young San Francisco nightclub
fare. A mix of yuppies and Alice Cooper fans seems
improbable to me, but I’m quite likely incorrect
about such assumptions. Is it a cover band
who only performs songs originally Alice
Cooper’s? That’s my first thought.
I can’t recall a single Alice Cooper song, to be honest. Would one
even ring a bell? Nevertheless,
Alice Cooper now for me has
enlarged significance. I imagine
a successful band biopic, bringing
them into even more of a present-
day relevance? Perhaps it’s just
how, these days, for me, I go
about gathering tidbits of import
from looking back at just about anything,
be it heavy metal band, a small shared
moment in time that has been recorded for
posterity, like a mini-film of people dancing
goofily on a large stage or of a recital performance,
of a family gathering, finding a stack of books
you had read when a mere child,
these are x-rays from which the
past might be examined, in which
tiny seeds of present predicaments
might be seen, assessed, diagnosed.
Maybe this Malice Cooper in no way has
any real relation to its less malicious
namesake. Perhaps it’s a means to gather
attention, to simply get someone, anyone,
to show up. Maybe one or two of those
who come may listen, wondering about
the band’s name, were fans of Alice
Cooper, and find they absolutely LOVE
this Malice. On the other hand there is
the possibility that fans of the band whose first name was that of the maid on
Brady Bunch, and whose last
is the name of a currently
popular actor enjoying heightened
celebrity who stars in and directs
a remake of a film made famous by a talented young lady whose popularity sky- rocketed during the time period it premiered, around when
Alice Cooper came together
for the first time and began to
go about making a name for
themselves. It is possible an
original member of the band might arrive
at the venue this evening, order a beer
while awaiting the night’s perfomance,
only to be completely mortified by what
they encounter. Perhaps there will be a
woman in attendance who keeps
her distance from the rest of the
crowd, seemingly lost, with a
cocktail in her hand, whose name is Barbra Cooper, a woman who revels in sadness at local concerts of all kinds. We might imagine (as I do) the horror, or sheer adventure, of such a new and unexpected discovery. Or, if one of the concert attendees failed to see the ‘M’ in front the rest of the
headliner’s name on the
marquee at the Brick & Mortar
at the northwest corner of Duboce
and Mission Streets one recent
afternoon and, still obvlivious,
has decided to attend.
These were just a few
of the things I was thinking,
perhaps embellished a bit for flare, at just that one in- tersection during my pleasant walk to my doctor’s office one
morning a few months ago as I
stepped over a blister-packed singular pill of what was (I believe) Klonopin.
bootsy is like janky — attributed to Eric of Normandy (that most timeless political mover & shaker)
above all else in terms of ‘tit for tat,’ each has to decide if the contents or latter-day content ment of his tit (or two) is at least precisely enough against that of her tat (as numer ous as they likely are) to be ever adequate in armament, (& alarm!), knocked out a few x’s (= times,
cross
es or xxx’s) weath ered intent ly (pre ferably in the more lasci vious of history’s harems, hotspots & on sens), green ly (as they say) slaugh ghter ed by most every mem ber of various battalions (world over), dumped in to every fogbank’s dank barn’s horse-drain, and even (with a smirk of mortality and the de crepit de ceit of mor ality) dunk ed by the troubad ours at the side party to the side party to the sec ond fif th prin cess ga la with curling tongues that are arched & twisted skyward like the tails of pigs, if only to be baudy,
end the
last bit
of his
tory’s that’s
still
brew
ing, intact
and yet
being re
corded
by the rare
few who do,
yet with
a chiv alrous sense of entr' acte, when all can be retold artfully, canon ically, in rally ing cries by the players wearing wreaths and/or on saddles, sipping in saloons, at emcee micro phones, or at dinner tables across the universe,
do so anec dotally and
often by spouses and erst while spouses. But as for my tit, it’s head ing out directly, undercover, defiant, to discover re sounding de feat on yet another other wise drab day (oh, the hours; oh, the suburbs!) without the loss of its singular compatriot nor the snub of any of the noses in the front row or two (or three) of darkly lit theaters, sleazy saunas
"Daddy, what's a dollar? What's a dime?" She makes him want to rip his guts out. "Why, they're these super-tall funnels that start from a few tiny spots near the earth, say about right here, level with the bottom of your pretty pink jeans, and they reach all the way up to heaven, Sweetheart," he spits through his gizzard just to manage a mile- wide smile, "and they each have an itty bitty sieve at the very bottom just above the dirt, where only the purest of spirits can crawl through." ... [He pauses, seems to reach metaphorically for something he just can't get] "Which they do, if not often, at least a time or two. Or so I'm told." Exhausted, he slams the shovel down further into the drying earth.
