cmli

I think my girlfriend
actually wants to get married with me.

Sign of the times:
I now own my first pair of
prescription sunglasses.

“Whatev, Bub.”
(She’s Beelze Bub’s cousin,
for those keeping score.)

I’m less interested in devastating
than I am in a Calgon-esque
“Take me away!”

But I do need to weigh myself
on a decent scale,

preferably while breathing
the salt air as it wafts in
from the Adriatic.

Uranus is bloated tonight;
a measured gift from the sky –

that faraway sky.

cml

April 12th, my stomach sunk
even deeper.  Got the email
around 7 after running 3 miles.

Walking home, feeling good.

Immediately afterwards,
blank.

Rented Road to Perdition,
watched half of it until
the return phone call:
“Well, you can still
love him, but obviously
that doesn’t mean you
should be together.”

OK.

Rarely have I felt so out of place
as I did in downtown Mazatlán,
until we found the cathedral,
walked inside – like taking
a dip into a pool during
100 degree heat.  Sat on a pew
near the back.  Just sat there
for a few minutes.  Then

got up, walked back into the
sunlight, the open arms of
Jesus (and a pope?).

With just such therapeutic
disorientation the city
becomes mine.

cmxlix

As absurd as 2,000 queens
on a ship off the waters of
Mexico (a niche market).

As absurd as going back
to work after an eight day
hiatus

(spent on a ship off the
waters of Mexico with
1,999 queens).

Which is queerer?

cmxlviii

And yet I disagree. The city
can exist if I work in my
“white shirt” at my small
desk in the dollar mark
of the city. I don’t do
dollars, I just watch them
go by, along with the
city, forming distinct,
curvy S’s up and down
the hills (no matter the
grid). All I ever wanted
was to not be bored. In
the ennui sense, that is.
Here at Gaylord, I’m
sneezing and reading
the second issue of
Pom². Last night, I
met Donovan for
sushi and a really
bad horror movie;
back in mode, loss
of libido, having
a good friend say
he’ll bend over
for me, looking
into my wallet
at a whole lot
of nothing.

cmxlvii

First words.  Sashimi combination B
OR the sexy Japanese guy across the way
(with his girlfriend – or without)?  Find
words.  Talking in the steam room
(usually a no-no, but not this time) with
a guy whose brother is a professor at MIT.
He just got back from Chicago and his
apartment is sweltering.  Taking notes.
At the beach with the little green bug
yesterday and then to shabu-shabu
with someone I’m madly in love with
but will never work out.  This way.
First something, then something else,
like Coco crawling up into my lap
and purring like nothing but sweet
love while I read Paterson (Book I,
Part III, pages 29 through 32).  A
little shaky from a triple shot –
the sun slowly burns its way through,
10:01am Pacific Time.

cmxlvi

Take refuge in a long poem.
                          —George Stanley

Buzz saw in the distance. The
noise of the back-up drive
picking up each new word.
Downloading pictures from
the cruise to Mexico. Dis
tracting myself from writing
by tidying up the place.
-ing, -ing, -ing.

The crack along the side
of the cylinder – mostly
empty container of
blank recordable
compact discs
(700 MB).

Just a few lines down, there’s
Write carelessly.

Hadn’t read that when I first began
but how true it is!

Thinking –
hopefully erroneously (in some just way) –
how this can’t work.

This poem fits nicely onto one page.

But then...
there are 945 others
that do the same.

Then, then,
how repetition,
repetitions...

cmxlv

To invest in the inevitable

Plunk the sentences out with
giraffish awkwardness (a
phrase stolen from William
Carlos Williams)...

not quite via George Stanley
in Vancouver: A Poem,

which I’m reading as I
get off the ship; realizing there are
many ways to delay the inevitable.
To prolong the inevitable.

The brain a snarl of death scenarios
until the Xanax fogs it up for the
puddle-jump from LAX to SFO.

We’re talking simultaneous reading
to stave off (to enhance) the
San Francisco fog.

Walking Otto halfway to work,
stopping by Starbucks for a
triple venti latté.

What this city means to me
on a day when I don’t have to
“work” – the city –

the incessant noises of SoMa construction –
a newly forming cityscape huddled against
the west end of the Bay Bridge –
bouncing off the buildings of the
Financial District,

off the Tenderloin rooftops
and into my very own living room.
Back home with the intensity of presence
as overwhelming as this desire for
another turn of the page.

cmxliv

Roman candles bleeding into their mouths

“Let me have your attention folks, the
Albany stop is fast approaching with its
wet, red timber.  Don’t forget your
Emergency Window Removal followed
directly by your Emergency Exit
(Pull Handle.  Remove Rubber).”

Break it down to the exact moment I
realized I had to take an Ativan.  It was
at __________* – which is debilitating
(i.e. imposes a ‘lack’) for the words
and for the memory and for the
memory of words, so at some point...

walking to the Chinese Tea Garden –
“it’s free today” – is remembered
by downloading the pictures
just to get the name of the deli:

  *Kenny & Zuke’s.

Good thing he likes to take pictures
of words.

Anyway, I made it back up to my
room and popped a pill, then down
to Rite-Aid at Broadway and Alder
for Prilosec, Rolaids, and a stapler
for the holes in the back of my mouth.

cmxliii

No, I am not seeing double.

But airy, lightheaded, happy—momentarily;
I can be for now, at this moment, when it is now.

Jim just posted a dozen orgasms.

So either I have an incorrect perception of myself
or this is a digital luxury.

He calls me over the soldiers, says my
mouth is like the Golden Gate Bridge.

He’s got a million of them.

I was thinking of what that might look like spoken.

cmxlii

The self’s weakest self funnels batter as
quickly as it can, into cakes.
                                 —Stephanie Young

I go out to buy an umbrella but it stops
raining.  I chance the rest of the weekend
without one.  Why fear wetness?  “People
in Portland don’t use umbrellas.”

At some point it is important to tamp one’s
conversations with oneself and release
those words on actual people.  The
word I keep using is “engagement.”
“Engagement” has become my
important word.

So I buy a red shirt covered with important
words and wear it around town.  Ever the
wallflower.  I am engaging even as I
break up or give distance a chance.
This is how I discover that I’m
really an extrovert.

cmxli

I’m trying to download a tree

Wake up with a slight case of nausea
in my neck. Walk down four flights
for the best coffee known to man,
so as the rain pours the nausea turns into a
heartache which slowly dissipates under
a good book. “It wasn’t supposed to rain
today,” says the apple tree in Rodney’s
back yard. Darren dreamed he was
swimming in the bay and got bombed
and died. The tree dies, becomes a
jigsaw puzzle with an image from
the dream. Whether or not I live, 

I will want to remember this moment.

cmxl

I gambled with love, and in its stead I found status anxiety.
                                                             —Kevin Killian

What mode today?
A la mode!

With 9 clear windows
across your face.

Never use the
obvious example

unless it hurts too much
to tell the truth.

Switch gears
whenever necessary. Some big hills.

All my life I thought I was an introvert
until I took the Myers-Briggs test.

Being a wallflower does not make you
introverted, it turns out. 

You are yet THERE!
You NEED the PEOPLE. (Or at least I do.)

But it wasn’t until I started taking
Wellbutrin that I realized how intense
the social anxiety is.

Last night when I
offered to a handsome

bike cabbie as he was pedalling me
from one nightclub to another

that “cool, we don’t have these in
San Francisco” I thought he said

“course not the difference between
Portland and San Francisco is

some big pills.”

cmxxxix

In Portland, I’m going
to be very nondescript.
Twelve years later I’m
looking in the same
general direction.  Sun
shine!  I don’t want to
pick up the clock for
fear I’ll let some of
it go.  I pick poems up
instead.  The air condi
tioner rattles the rust
outside the window,
bright orange.  I’m
in the Ace Hotel in
the room with the
Best and Strongest
Ladder and wool blank
ets, military issue-esque,
that make me think of my father.
Portland rain.  The last time I
was here, he was still alive.
Yeah, that.  But I’m not
melancholy.  I’ve got a big
ladder and I’m going to climb
up to the roof and sink my
teeth into a big Portland raindrop.
Goes well with Stumptown coffee.
And poems by Kevin Killian which
in Portland seem even more romantic
than in San Francisco.  But this is
my love for Portland, Oregon.
And the little bit of sunshine
I brought with me on
the train.  And a
kiss on the cheek
to my very first love,
with whom I lived here
years ago, but long after the
cacophany had dissipated,
and whose namesake I
ran into just last night
after searching hours
for a dancefloor; a
pleasant stranger
in whom to find
that old and heart-kindling
familiarity.

cmxxxviii

I would like a little of the
sunlight to come over me
here on this bench, spectral
me.  I shot through the St.
Francis a minute ago to
see a little bit of the blue
ocean, its blue a bit Mex
ican, not like what you
might usually call the
stormy blue sea.  I see
someone I’d like, but
he’s not blue.  My
glimpse was enough,
however.  I must have
really been in Mexico.
Yes, my spirit got
caught in a loop and I
nearly lost myself.
Yet here I still am
indecipherable on
this chilly bench next
to the azaleas the
birds hide in to keep
themselves from the
city for just a minute
before stretching to
the west, losing our
shadow in migration.

cmxxxvii

A big blue crane rises up, up, up,
rises belligerently up the Macy’s
building, wants forever to stop
at the Cheesecake Factory for a
one hour wait and pastel cock
tails. The square cafe makes a
lot of noise waking up and the
jukebox is lovelier than you
ever wanted it to be on a day
like today with 150 years of
oohs, ahhs & wows. Otto’s
getting arrested in the subway
for possible terrorism (can’t
videotape without a permit).
Two men write a poem on
the same day (Tim McVeigh
is executed). What comes of
each? We are all reincarnated
inappropriately. I’ve found
this morning in Union Square –
nothing worth writing home
about until the Sudafed
kicks in (“Look, you’ve got
the old kind,” dug lovingly
out of the bottom of his bag).
Somebody’s whistling like
Bing Crosby while a high-
spirited red-jacketed Saturday
morning playboy hoses down
around a trash receptacle; the
city abloom with the clang
of the trolley, afull of morning
joggers and pigeons, agay
with bench kissers and aloft
with dreamy purple flowers
and me.

cmxxxvi

blog fodder from the new world order
(stocks rally on halibut fears)

I’m telling you right off the bat I’m high maintenance.
I’m itching to try these new whistles you practice.
15 minutes you don’t have to sit down in front of a blank page.
Find the answer to this question and millions of others
in Mommy’s car made of plastic rope.

Okay, people, I know we’re all broken up about it.

Yeah, so these are some pics from the wedding
and the tight knot that is my stomach.
The brain can do more than just initiate a quick
retreat from the source of pain.
And this one is a dead ringer for the pancake house I worked in
while in high school.

Set it up and dismantle the tower or derrick cranes.
A vote of no confidence would make it
impossible for him to stay on the job.

cmxxxv

the sun tits

a big demo
nstration a
long love
with the
orbitz girl.
walk and
workout.
kick him
to the curb.
chase a wino
who spills
beer on you
calling him
anyone un
der the sun.

cmxxxiv

How come all meaning gets
squandered, just sort of
washes away like sand in the
shower as we approach what
is haughtily called WIZDOM?

I’m hungry.

cmxxxiii

This is too much pressure. I
meant to wonder about the audacity
of quantifying the ‘bigness’ or the
‘smallness’ of talent.

I’m smart but not audacious. (Is
a big splash in a small pond better
than a small splash in a big one?)
What’s with verbalizing, anyway?

The question comes more down
to ‘cult status’ – endless arguments
with best friends who, in their
indie hipnesses are posing just as
loud as a silver-plated fashion
mag on a Borders rack.

Getting bigger by becoming
smaller, My Hero. If I were
trying to say something I’d
explain myself, right? It
goes something like that,

falling asleep at the east end
of Whaleship Plaza with a
bird (small, no further
description) singing in my ear.

cmxxxii

In the soft-core center
of the after-party glow,
I graze my tongue discreetly over my teeth.
I understand everything now,
but where do I go from here?

Clearly something is very wrong.
Perfection makes me dizzy, though,
so you can compare your apples to oranges
all you want so long as you remain master
of the big waxy ball in my head.

He’s a sucker for war, I always heard.
Jim, keep these postcards coming.
Maybe a pair of ours will meet over the
Texas desert and a little ray of hope
will—and this is where I turn to Kevin
for help—

maybe a little ray of hope will
arrive via a new Facebook app
and we’ll each meet two new friends
who’ll ease us into one or two in the morning
so we don’t find ourselves crushed
like a tube of Colgate.

Bright young mopheads with
exuberant vanity
who coax us unfurled into our beds
where we milk the death out of sex,
another morning’s addled rhythms
a few nerveless dreams away.

cmxxxi

Gorgeous Reception

I can hear you now. I can
only respond I am only able
to respond, and not eloquent
ly. And a square hot dog.

Stay true to the fact, my
dear, steer clear of fantasy.
Not my advice, obviously.
How boring to offend
no one!

I’m really developing a
mood. I am devising a plan
and only you know about it:
You really look snappy! or
My, you look snappy!

What a sucker I am. Fuck
Tokyo! I can barely hear
you. Stock plunge forces
another argument about
fashion choices, fashion
fundamentals.

Then I remember that
I already got a haircut
just yesterday. Yesterday,
with whom I was so in love.

cmxxx

That they still need toilets is mysterious.
                           —Stephanie Young

The markets are way down and I have to
pee right now. This is the first time that
time stands still (in a very long time) and
let’s say it is all just a dress rehearsal.

Always check the rain schedule in advance.
I have a crush on Feeling Like but yes,
my relationship with Yesterday is as
serious as ever. Maybe I just need a John.

His son is ten, I think. It’s Tuesday and
last night it seemed almost summerlike
with fog. I went directly home and
fell to the ground. A new Ani D

album out today and I’m going to
buy it.                            —broke with a
tiny hair growing out between
two teeth so I go to the bathroom

I see it in the mirror and I don’t
have anything to pluck it out.
Back at my desk I pilfer through
vintage dentist goodies and find

some floss, flex that stuff until
my mouth bleeds, but flossing
always feels so good. Nothing
works, though, until I spit out a

wad of gum gently brush it up
my gums like putty and voilà.

cmxxix

In Line at Starbucks

Star of India, pale Elephant
Man, lanky spirit of my
inner pocket, do not go
out that door.  You came
in Tokyo.  I know your
hotel (what room number?).
Star of Georgia Plantation,
darker in spirit than my
left-hand neighbor, Shang
hai Seventeen, enumerator
of my inner waistband, do
NOT go out that door.  I
came here for coffee but
tuck my spirit between
your sock and ankle.  Oh
you’re wearing sandals?
Come over here.  I have
a couch for a hotel and
am not yet clear-headed,
Pale Singapore, Pale
Australasia.  Mind my
natty rims.  Parch my
fevered whims.  Just
watch me smoke one min
ute more esteeméd Star
of Uzbekistan, Stan of
my Oliver, man of my
momentary dream.  I
double espresso dare
you.

cmxxviii

Sure, you’re the one
everyone falls in love with
what a flirt! And you got my
number early on. Did I get
yours? I dunno, maybe
I was putting up the wallpaper
that day. But the parties I
threw for you, they were in
sane! Now I just sit here
and listen to the sirens.
Probably the same
ones you like to wash up
against the rocks. Yeah,
I’m mixing things up a little
because now I remember
I didn’t get into your
pants. The things I like
to remember. Anyway,
you’re a lovely human
being. I mean that as I
turn the temperature up
on the oven. For you
I’d have another heart
attack. But listen,
first can you help me
move the couch? Now
that we’re alone you
can tickle me until
the moon falls back
into its golden sling
while I lick that ball of
a head of yours up from
Venezuela and around
back to Chad and
Lithuania before the
sun cracks each fan
tasy like a roll of quarters
on a big broken toe.

cmxxvii

This is easy. Man
darin Chinese
bricks and urns
(no left turn). Man
walks in with
no left arm, a
belly full of flowers,
distinguished cock
tails and foot police.
Birds on piano
wire sing plastic
buttercups open
til midnight serving
corned beef hash.
And in the back,
a pharmacy full of
honey-baked ham
and last-ditch Euro
pean tours. Full
throttle Sunday.

cmxxvi

Having not quite
every man (but
love). Startover
reading Kevin’s
Kylie poems I
have the sun
now in my
pocket, the
disco sounds
of the city
streets upwaft
in my windows
with an airplane
talking about
healthcare and
stomach prob
lems. Irresistible
notoriety. I’m
too lazy to get
up to throw my
chewing gum
away. But is
it instead too
enraptured too
in love as a
nother car horn
goes berzerk
and I pull out
my earbuds
just to breathe
a little?

cmxxv

The waltzes were beautiful, but
the innuendoes were astounding,
with names I’d love to recount
like Bette and Victoria. I was
surprised by how much gray had

gotten into your hair. Before
going too far, I’d like to add
the moon. Was full. First,
we took the 38 down Geary
for breakfast at Seal Rock Inn

(eggs benedict). Then, we
explored the ruins of the
Sutro Baths, taking pictures
of each other along the way.
Then we walked Ocean Beach

with Buffalo Bill Cody and
a representative from each
tribe. Up into the park
for close-ups of various blooms.
On to Haight Street for burgers

and then home for a nap. All
the while a lovely Saturday
with room to back up and start
all over again. The waltzes were
beautiful, but the innuendoes...

cmxxiv

One more Beowulf
and I didn’t even
crack. I’m all
Anyway You
Choose to Give
It by The Black
Ghosts. Makes
me think of you
and the paper
cranes having
up and flown.
I’ll experiment
with anger while
I miss them
(and you). If
you’re looking to
extract a teardrop,
I suggest a movie.
That’s the only
way, honey.

cmxxiii

Today, on Facebook, I Am Writing a Valentine.

This is tedious—my back aches too much—
I’m feeling my age.  Perhaps an
imaginary hike will do.

Otto’s chopping vegetables; a cool
breeze floats in from Los Angeles.
Send me a text message, will you?

How will this that started with love
end?  Music lyrics are appropriate.
I’ve gotten raw for you and now
you want this?  Come here and
give me a hug.

   Dear Valentine,

   You wake the rabbits in my heart.
   My heart was the rabbit. You
   drive me insane with your fake
   smiles. There’s one for good
   measure.

Tomorrow I will write you an
angry letter, my love.

cmxxii

My Father, The Father

What does being a parent give you
that I will never know? How does
adolescent anger and resentment
over not having the dad my
friends had grow into utmost
awe and respect. I was reading
the newspaper every morning
(or thus my classmates would
have it) before starting school
(first grade, because they didn’t
have kindergarten the year I
was five), and this was all
because of you. Every morning
for hours you and I were locked
away with ABC blocks and a
Fisher-Price tape recorder. I’ve
no real memories of what
transpired, but can remember
the look on Mrs. Renfrow’s
face (first grade teacher)
when she had me out on the
playground concrete during
“rest period” reading The Grapes
of Wrath to her. My father,
short-tempered like his dad,
wanted his kids to have the
things he never did. Piano
lessons, for example. I am
proudly my father in many
ways: perverse, flirtatious
(only it’s waiters and not
waitresses for me), stubborn,
well able to evoke a strong
sense of confidence, but
generally feeling small,
greedy, but with a keen
tight-lipped understanding
of the restorative powers of
generosity, difficult to be
satisfied with what is given
me, just plain difficult. But
he clearly lived for his kids,
a father to three sons and a
daughter, a proud sire. And
what that must feel like I
now feel is the big mystery.

cmxxi

Something romantic about walking
through dark San Francisco alleyways
at four in the morning.  Of a weekend.
Slaked with the throb of,
you guessed it,
dance music.

Losing your sense of direction can be
catharsis.  I remember trying to
drive home, three in the morning,
realizing I’m well past Roxbury,
somehow I’ve completely bypassed
Jamaica Plain.

I remember concentrating intently
on not hitting the construction barriers
on I-75 when I lived in Toledo.

How do I remember these besotted
moments when I can barely remember
anything?

cmxx

Then the Bras Went Up

So how’s it going, skipping
time? I think okay. I turned
the green eye off, however,
only to realize that fantasy
requires physical proof of
existence. Allow

exhibitionism to turn you
on and next thing you know
it’ll be pegging porn in
tea rooms. Breathe with
ease and comfort. Allow

the body to take over. I
once had a cage full of
rabbits in my backyard.
Now I look for poems
in pillboxes, vaguely
recalling a stew of

rabbit shared with a
dining room full of
Little Rock drag queens.
A spirited discussion
about wigs. But then
someone nearly chopped
a finger off (instead of
a carrot?) and after that

the memory disappears.
Tonight, a new friend
tells me he feels like
putting on his wig and
dancing around in his
room. Let’s rather take
off our bras and go

cavorting in the moonlight.
It’s warm enough to streak
and my path to true engage
ment requires a certain
degree of perversity earlier
and oftener than these
memory banks goldenly
recede into oblivion.

cmxix

The Glory of His Angry Eyebrow

I lost all of my movies.  The police
sirens remind me of this fact.
Honesty, with all its smoke and
mirrors, is what I am trying to
tell you.

Let’s get high and argue.  This
sense of belonging is important.
I will crawl around on my hands
and knees looking for contact
lenses (which I don’t wear)

while you throw the camera
out the door (along with yourself).
Anger is important.  I get dizzy
eating a cheeseburger and fries
reliving it.

Getting back to the anger is
where peace can be found.  I am
short-tempered but rarely angry.
Does this make sense?  If each
morning I clip the hairs that have

grown wild upon my face (ears,
nose, eyebrows) I take two solid
minutes to look at my sogged-
over eyes and recount one
angry moment,

the day’s primary problem is
resolutely solved.  Peace and
happiness forever.

cmxviii

As Evening Snakes Them

I misread a man about my heart,
his words a cool breeze after
a hot summer week.

Swooning through the hallway
I’m growing more confident that
love is the ever-growing purpose.

(I’m a late-bloomer, but now that
I’m in my 40s, enlightenment
comes with jaw-popping speed.)

A dull ache in my chest, I lose
myself in a deep trance staring
at a pepper seed in the carpet.

My friend has two snakes. I
met the new one yesterday.

cmxvii

High on the couch with exploding
wind; the air at the ceiling having
found its depth or its relationship
to the floating furniture (incongruity
like TNT, which is how easy it is
to fall in love with the “wrong
person”). Never a dull moment,
looking a lemur in the eyes. As
if to say “I am right here with you.”
Or “Just yesterday we exchanged
places—I saw things ‘the way I
always wanted’—and today each
expelled breath sinks to the bottom
of the lake that used to lie in torpor
outside my living room window.”

cmxvi

an envelope
addressed to a broken backyard
                              —Landis Everson

The fan on high; webcamming in the
afternoon. A wealth of filth in the
boring carpet. Loving to spice things
up, I try my damnedest to stay awake.
Things start happening.

Mom calls to inform me that she’s
wrapped her back porch round the
entire north side of her house.
Stores run out of sugar keeping
her hummingbirds quenched.

An email from a lovely friend I
haven’t seen in months; an invitation
to dinner. Why should we quibble
with fate? If you find me flirting
in the chatroom, just remember that
flirting leads to friendship.

cmxv

Pretending to remember is a glorious
device; the fan on high from too much
San Francisco summer.  I was talking
last night with someone in the middle
of a storm.  Trading tornadoes for earth
quakes was entirely too easy.  And easy
makes way for complacency.  So I do
my laundry and furrow my brow.

Today I am skipping time.  When it’s
too difficult to tell September from
January, what’s the difference be

tween anything and anything?  How

ever, I’ve nothing really fantastic
to say to you.  Unless you have ESP.

cmxiv

Reading this morning
at Jasmin’s drinking
coffee outside ultra-
beautiful day waiting
now for crab fried
rice and 5pm poem
swap at Union
Square for dinner
then Joanne Kyger
and Anselm Hollo.
Message in my
phone from “the
snowflake ;)”
makes me drunk
with happiness
as I eat a smoked
salmon sandwich
with Ralph Fiennes
followed by
apple pie and
the gym.  The
sun disappears
behind the St. Francis
Hotel.  A Salvatore
Ferragamo sun.  A
Pigeon sun and
a trolley car sun.
Or it is a Louis 

Vuitton sun
covered by
fragile tree
blossoms as
my foot falls
asleep.

cmxiii

Rules made to be broken
suddenly seem sacred.
How I have swiveled
and swayed my way
out of this, the
indefatigable dance.
Today we’re five to a bed
with sex, drugs and rock
and roll, puzzling later
over how cherished this
unexpected fragment
of time has already
become. Later,
filled with rocket
fuel, surrounded by
a conglomeration of
luscious tartines,
to find one’s hunger
utterly sated comes
as a shock to the
system, another
moment to savor.

Renege

capitalistic fury.

cmxii

My colleagues, the seven hills of San Francisco.

Memory, like a long, white glove taken off
during a strip-tease. Feelings, a rusting
trumpet cased up in the attic. Sooner than
the forehead becomes a parquetry of time,
I fall to the dust. Exhaustion

is actually subtle, comes faster with
stability. Shake things up and life is a
joyride but where did it go? Tranquil

jonquils on the veranda. A slippery
bass tugging at the tow. The bliss
of a full weekend actively engaged
with intimates, sensory overload,
friendship done enough to eat,

an almond tart at a newly-encountered
bakery. I love this city, I fall in love
often. Today, again, with the man
of my heart. Always something
delectable in the fog sifting through
the Financial District,

romance and capitalism can thrive
together. Like now, all I see is
blue. Then home to mull over
the dirty carpet, unable to yet
clean for fear of ridding myself
of all signs of parties awkward
and ecstatic. Laundry

instead, a few poems, congeries
to this and that, a tribute to
all things remembered and
forgotten.

cmxi

Rejecting the notion it takes
years to process important data.
Bad idea.  Assuming you know
important data vs. unimportant.
Arrogant.

Crisis today: taxes is an ice
rink.

cmx

Being.   To be.
The blatant
lack of sexuality
amongst a horny
throng.   Several
sprigs of somewhat
serious conversation
and then BLAM
hot love with the
seemingly inadequate.
When we dig he’s
beautiful, trimming
my beard with
steady eyes.   His
moles, the hair
under his ‘sideburns’.
We move on, work
it out.   Find our
selves a happy
piece.   Be
ginnings.

cmix

Salt N Pepa’s here.

Salinas pepitas.

cmviii

mark this: sneezing
into the crook of
my arm, I accidentally
skip a stanza.   so I
come here to edit an a
historical moment.   a

repetition a

repetition (sure)
with disregard
to intellect.   and as such I
backtrack, sure, I
mimic to swoon with I
relevance.   at home I

doing one thousand
things at once.   eating
all of the grapes.   mark
this:

           the Ferry Building,
a summer escape, and
the definition of
quagmire.   and
furthermore I get
away with it.

eating grapes.   a stale
cashew.   skip stanza.
mark this.

cmvii

My good friend is leaving.
It should have ended there
but he sent me his picture
to cheer me up.   Which I
put into the poem I wrote
yesterday.   Do you think
death is inevitable?   Look
at this beautiful paperweight
for forty-five minutes.

cmvi

I showed him everything
but this.  Constantly.  Or
maybe not tonight.  Leading
to loss of hair.  The broken
sound of the word ‘depressed’ –
does it cheer you up?  I found
that last part under the couch.

cmv

Excruciating.  Into the
darkness with collar on.
One poem, no offer for
more ginger ale.  My
waiter.  Looking good
but maybe not tonight.
I think it’s a trend so
I refuse to go with it.
Show it to me.
Very good.  I cried
at the funeral.  In real
life, one dollar tip is
one dollar too much.

cmiv

Break through into me (again,
I am your humble servant) on
this most desolate of weekends.
Interesting, love, love, etc.
Where next?  Bad waiters
taking off their pants
until you’ve been broken.
Break down broken up and
broken into.  It’s a process.

cmiii

Do you hear my stomach?
It’s been – I’ve been – too busy.
I was once a compassionate
lover.  Now I take all I can
and never use anything.
To use is to lose.
Finally the snow
has melted away.  Then
to the Chinese New Year’s
parade in the rain.  What
comes of such severe
humiliation?  A
coffin in the end,
to be sure.  So off
we go, two dots
in the massive
anti-war demonstration.
Precious.  What’s
won at the lottery
goes to the purchase
of a new webcam.

cmii

Adorable.  Why do you do me so?
Meanings of my life I cannot find.
In August. T omorrow afternoon.
Then dinner.  What a tease you
like to be.  And then?  Dancing
under a wiggly table.  There’s
the short, enigmatic note you
sent.  All hell broke loose on
the couch.  Sprigs of lavender.
Except love has decided to
really take.  Go ahead to the
movies while I pace the
apartment looking for
chips.  While I untangle
all the wires.  Which means
there are things I must
reconcile or change.
Approaching 3pm,
nearly at war with
another rhyme.

cmi

I’m loving Dodie’s blog it’s
miraculous how to actually
say something I never know
how. Speaking of which I
think Barf Manifesto must’ve
gotten lost in the mail it just
never showed up. Finished
pages 50 and 51 how in Bolivia
on the shores of Lake Titicaca
lies Copacabana. Then page
2,048 look how I’ve (not)
written. Lake Titicaca Peter
on Family Guy would be
giggling by now. How
uninteresting how who cares
how little I’ve written
which is generally indic
ative of February (isn’t it?).
Kickstart it in such a staid
environment (staid lake
since only existent in my
staid skull staid mahogany
staid month). I guess mainly
I’m thinking drive-by on
Folsom with half-moon
(or merely wishing which is
also dreaming half the time)
or how I wish I were. Half-
moon
on
Folsom
drive-
by. Go home wetface go
home instead go blog go back
to papers left drying by the
fire in Bolivia I’m loving
I’m really loving Dodie’s blog
it’s a miracle how to actually
get something said cuz fuck
this shit is no good.

cm

Welcome to American Express.
I can’t get in. You’re choking me.
Wake up! I’m at my desk talk
ing about the end of October
it’s mid-August. I was not the
same in February which is
similar to most months between
December and April here. In
San Francisco two and a half
years before this headline
Spray-on condoms still a hard
sell. Exchange each word with
a different one (talking about
stomach problems) I haven’t
seen my friend Perrin online
in a while. Poems about coming
a lot and leopards (Scalapino).
It’s really nice to have something
that alleviates the problem. I
love baby food but haven’t act
ually had any in a while. Wel
come to American Express I
can’t get in you’re choking me
WAKE UP!

dcccxcix

in my poetry, it’s a scientific fact
that our thoughts cause our feelings and behaviors
                                               —Tao Lin

I am said to have the anguish of a plaster breast.
Night before last I said “dick” four times. I usually use “penis.”
Writing as if I were a woman can be an enriching pretense.

Then there are books you read the first page of and know
immediately that this is going to be one of the profound events
of this active cycle.

Nobody gets to know me because I am too busy getting to know books.
Two “I love you” emails was all I needed.

Everything went well, though I think Taylor broke his arm.
Saturday I got my hairs cut by Zeon at Glama-Rama. Then we
saw Final Destination 2, a seriously disturbing fucked up film.

Off to Treasure Island for a party. The host disappears half-way through,
and I was quite a wallflower. My adorable date was charming,
seemingly out of his element (in a good way), gobbling up quail eggs.

I have become known (to myself) for arguing well into the night for
arrogant, broad proclamations or radical truisms like
“Poetry can be anything you want it to be.” I am here. Please wave.

dcccxcviii

Why This Veil of Pretense?

It’s lovely to get to know someone. It takes years.
And then comes engagement. Or so I say. Primary ambrosia.

So why are we so afraid to give it away? Well, perhaps because
we know all too well that getting it straight can be so dull. Do I want to
bore people?

Perhaps, sometimes.

Mystery, elusivity, and complexity are basically corrupt and coward.
But I do like to play hard to get (in the traditional sense).
Anyone who’s that obvious doesn’t stand a chance with me.

Hence it’s games with words. Much joy ensues.

Lately, and I was just talking about this with someone
whose name never shows up here, I’ve been thinking about
the inclusion of proper names of friends, lovers, and acquaintances
who show up in these lines,

what it would mean to tabulate each name, rank the order
from “most appearances” to “mentioned only once” –
and how that list might compare with and surprise with regard to
perceived importance of the same set of people – in “real” life –
outside the trajectory of this plot that I have pieced together from “reality” –

this lovely, pretended plot that has,
in more ways than I can articulate,
given me a clearer understand of who I am and what is real
than pretty much any venture in which I’ve ever invested.

As for engagement, today I feel so in love.
Ain’t that something?

dcccxcvii

Porn Without Hands

Speed fills weekends with days and nights.
Speedway voice-overs like Tom Raworth
highlighting your life’s events. It’s astounding
being forty-one. Sure, I am here, like always.
Think about always. Always.

I’m very good at comparing degrees of selfishness.
Very is for arrogant. And that I can reason my way
down the spectrum toward “much diminished with regard to
her and him.”  Hooray. Four stars
(five would be too too).

I could smell the trees and hear the birds on campus.
When that becomes so striking that I notice I’ve
dropped my pastoral pretensions and lo
I am a small town boy I should get to know
it’s time to watch anything with Andy Griffith.

When the birds call me back to school.

Speaking of rejecting Academia for academia
(or is it the other way around), I just finished
George Stanley’s At Andy’s last night and it was
sooooo good.

Like how Facebook can remind you that you
really do have an assortment of friends, it’s
always nice to be reminded that there are
heroes aplenty. Before a gentle reminder
to walk on over to the bookshelf, let’s use our
bloated left brain to problematize this stanza.
A graph or two would be handy.

“Gemini, I love thee.”
“Why, Sparky, you don’t taste so bad yourself.”

dcccxcvi

Delusion Can Also Be of Value (cf. “Del is for Delusion”)

Forcing yourself to
deliberately trudge page by page through a book
you’re just not getting,
caught somewhere between distaste
and disinterest when,
ALL OF A SUDDEN,
you become acquainted, you start to enjoy it, you engage.
A child has been born into the family.
Well.

I don’t believe it’s a typo. His name is Shiny.
You think the earth wasn’t watching where it was going?

The movie was utterly horrible. However, never to
blatantly adorn the mantle of pessimism (a gift I inherited
matrilineally; although having spent a decade as an actor
I believe I know how to feign that I long ago pawned it off
for more decorous values*), I am most certain it was better
than watching Bush’s state of the union address.

Then he blocked out as much sunshine as he could
and got into bed, I dunno when, but then we made love
— aswirl — something is bringing us together.
Later we talked about money.

And you loved me because this is what I am not.

*Don’t bother telling me if I am sadly mistaken.

dcccxcv

What’s more
I start to think you
               —Graham Foust

There are joys and practicalities.
Why should these be mutually exclusive?

Forgive my broad assertions.
Arrogance is less often mutual bliss.

Double-date at hot pot restaurant in
Burlingame.  Someone should come visit
my home town.

A guy I have been obsessed with for two years
smiles at me two days in a row while I’m
on a treadmill.

This is the point where his friends
make a concerted effort, a
valiant inclusion.

Now, it seems, there is no turning back.
Darkness falls.

(Also an obscure reference to the movie
Darkness Falls)

Spent the night at his place,
where I put my left foot on the earth
and reached out to grab a helicopter.

dcccxciv

I only blog for poetry.

Pour myself another root beer
in case I forget the punch line.

Why have I done this
for years and years (these root beers)?

He just came, you’re
stupid, and nothing will ever

be as it once was.  And this is
okay.  Seriously, once you get

going with these things it’s really
hard to stop.  Red skies at

night, a new version of
Yahoo, the cat bites off
half my hand (rippled palms).

Pour another soda for
six and a half years

of strawberry cake (you)
and tea (me).  “I’m envious of you!”

Of this, I don’t think he knew
exactly what was meant.  Such

auteur nonsense took balls
and I wanted to love the wrong person
for it.

It was a moment for the record.
It was a moment.

dcccxciii

I totally meant sedentary
not sedimentary
though either will do.  Dana’s got
too many keys in his blood.
The image rides far in your head like a
   chromatic lotus chord opening out from one’s bong (Dana Ward).
First I misread one’s borg.  Far
and far out like salmon burger
with milkshake, a favorite I seem to have
forgotten -- (the phone rings) -- and if I am indeed
slowly getting stupider then the truth will be
known tomorrow.

dcccxcii

Pizzahut.com still thinks
Sepia is alive.  How do I
change this?  Besides history,
I want thin crust sausage and bacon
with extra cheese,
which is almost what they
used to call a cheeseburger pizza
but more sausagey.  Whew,
I’m much better today (rainy)!
Casting PPL IN A DEPOT
my love says “love, love, love, love,
love!”  Serendipity just finished
a videotaped interview for
Platinum.  Joe calls.  “Well,
obviously because I love the
more elusive dancing mania.”
Nobody ever cared more,
I promise (please care).
Tomorrow, a concert with
Erin.  Friday, poets.

dcccxci

What happened to romantic?
We don’t meet for another year.
Pissy needs.  Sitting, eating,
can’t sleep, more phones.  I
bought this to meet you with.
One, he practically dismisses me.
Two, he spends all these
“extra hours” with “friends” –
we get contentious.  He
jumps me for being wishy-
washy and ending
conversations with
“nevermind!”  I agree
it’s sexy to jump and
promise to sleep okay
after the suicide bomb.

dcccxc

My green iPod broke and I can’t find my
blue one under the bozo moon.  Under
any moon I am still filth, even with this
fish band-aid.  My heart hurts and the
police ring their bells but I am happy
in my bones.  My bones ride the
elevator up and down for security
(surely there are cameras in there).
Reading V.Imp. with 7-up, soup
and gorgonzola salad.  Things
are surprisingly warm and giddy
with my ride to the warehouse.
First, he drank a fuzzy navel,
turned all red and was scratching
up his arms, then to my bathtub
where he crashes immediately.  I
get up to watch the war between
the Jews and the Arabs (this
before we know anything),
then back to bed for snuggling,
first time this year. Later,
in the middle of the night,
he gets up to clip my face hairs
for wallflower practice and
all the Raiders fans on BART.
It is a cloudy day.

dccclxxxix

I thought you were going to call me
You’ve Got Several Schticks but you
broke a bottle of Pepto-Bismol
instead.  What’s it all about?

I’m sitting, facing the fireplace
these days, listening to my
arrhythmia, clutching my
graying hairs.  Come over here.

It emits little warmth.  Though
it’s a beautiful day, sunny,
brash and relatively pink.

dccclxxxviii

Another Methane Burger

She died the most beautiful death,
even more descriptive than this pair
of greens that clash with one another.
The poetry of Grey Gardens is
all I would ever need just dying.
And then Fort Chaffee burned
like a soul covered in ash under this
green on green tablecloth. January
10th it’s official: I am now a key
that will unlock a heavy door. So
I try to broadcast this. One day I
woke up and wanted to sleep with
him. Turn the lights off and
make it the worst one ever.

dccclxxxvii

The news is boring. I can’t see
the island any more. The mood:
peaceful and humorless, with a
desire to not express my feelings.
Peeing it out of your system. Be
coming a contortionist just to
stretch it out. Crawling out of
your skin to find a window with
a view. Sending flowers. It is
raining.

                                   —on poetry

dccclxxxvi

Apparently, there is a salmonella epidemic.
A cat walks into a kitchen, thinking about
food.  A scarf and a cap hang on a lover’s
doorknob.  First, find out what he does
when he’s alone.  We rented pizza and
ordered a barbershop.  The boss is away.
When this happens, I feel around in my
pockets for dollar bills.  Change is less
easy the older I get.  Moving to a new
location is psychically debilitating (it’s
the dishevelment).  The obvious is
often understated.  I like Indian food.
I slept on the couch, a bit uncomfortably,
but mostly because I had a cold.  His
poems matured exceedingly well.  It’s
nice to forget you’re a grown-up.  Folks
who care often find it unsettling when
their adult friends act like children (or,
worse yet, teenagers).  More and more
of my own friends are convinced the
government is watching their every
move.  Most are more than a little
upset about this and quite paranoid
to boot.  Me, I’m nonchalant.

dccclxxxv

But all I do is bitch and what I mean is
I love you.
                                                  —Frank O’Hara

It seems I forgot how to mean
something.  Let’s go camping.
Let’s be silly but not juvenile.
Let’s noodle under the elms
and watch Hitchcock’s latest.
But wait.

No?

Four years of Wednesdays.  That’s
what he thinks of me.  It was all
one red herring after another.  Well,
there’s more than one way to skin a
cat.  And how.

Some days there’s these amazing...

I’m sure he’s not got much
up in the old attic, but I love
to watch him stagger around.
(See how he grimaces
with ecstasy?)

My palm-reader says a trendy
restaurant will be gone soon.

Note to self: Oh, to kiss (but not that)!

“You make no sense
can we be boyfriends?”

There I go again with the orange walls.

Sucker!

dccclxxxiv

Lifting Like a Bridge Against the Sky

Please sit down before this
cocktail runs me over. You
always have such
swell things to say.

This’ll never work.
And that’s what I love about you.

How is one ever to be
a perfectionist? Are those
orange shoes?

Take, for example,
what a fine mess
we’ll have ourselves next week.
(I’m proactive so it’s already done.)

Plus (alas) I’m down on my knees
and it’s a blessed thing this isn’t legal!

Tomorrow
I’ll be plucking lavender
from my thumbnails.

dccclxxxiii

Beware of still waters & overly obedient children
                                                             —Lewis Warsh

Under the influence.  The wind is blowing
like an ocean.  Trust me when I say I’ve
been up all night.  I wonder what Monday
will bring.  I guess I can take a nap in the
parking lot.

Then I walked over to check out their
room at the St. Francis Hotel.  All we
did was go up and down the elevator.
That was pretty much yesterday.  Still
somewhat exhilerated by the breakthrough.

The birds are singing for me.  The new
television is like a black hole.  I will
take a shower in 20 minutes.  So what?
I am losing to the dawn, its doves
and trolleys.

I don’t remember any childhood
confidence.  I do remember exhileration.
Joy in getting lost.  Being “teacher’s pet.”
I didn’t rebel until a senior in high school.
The rest of my life I erase

every rule I ever learned.  All the while
feeding all the spectators I can muster
my brilliant act of conformity. Me,
an honest Gemini, whichever mask
is the true one.

dccclxxxii

Partial list of proper names in Anachronizms (thus far)

Bing Crosby
Bob (a role I played in Toledo)
Almodovar
Jack (Spicer)
Mr. Atomic (made up name, I think)
David Lynch
Charlotte (made-up name)
Winsome (made-up name)
Miss Universe
Paul Hoover
Amy Lowell
Ezra (Pound)
Ross’s (no idea)
montgomery clift
Maggie (an old landlady)
Fonzie (but as an adjective)
Delusional (pretending it’s the full spelling of my own name)
Loretta (probably reference to Lynn – wrote an ‘autobiographical play’ about her)
Partridge Family
Norman Mailer
Cameron Diaz
Dad (only counting if I use as a proper noun)
Barber Joe (made-up name, I think)
Rednose (as in Rudolph)
Princess Diana
Guston (a dog named – made up, after Philip)
Julie Delpy
Charles Bukowski
Renee Zellweger
Willard Scott
Charo
Cinderella (referring to a Cinderella story)
Buddha
Josh
Dahlen (as in Beverly and "oh my Dahlen")
Archie and Jughead
Death (serves Vodka with Red Bull)
Kevin (I think Killian)
Aaron (I think Shurin)
LILY TOMLIN
Suzy (Saul)
Wallace and Gromit
David Hockney

dccclxxxi

All transitions are seamless
                               —Lewis Warsh

Another happy thing that comes with wisdom
is reliving the moments of pleasure and allowing
harsh times to dissipate, holding no resentment.
Assuredly, I have most always been this way,
and cannot understand the concept of revenge.
Perhaps this is something of me (innate,
certainly not genetic), rather than a gift
from years and experience. A boy just
told me he loved me on a dancefloor. My
father would have been sixty today. Of this
I wrote “I am now the better him.” Today
(when he would be sixty-five), I say
with confidence, “I am now me.” We
should have spent the night in each other’s
arms. Note to Bill: You’ll love that in one
of the last poems I wrote, I tried to use the
word “blather” – however, I looked it up in
my small dictionary and it wasn’t there. So
I changed it to “bleat”. My family calling
is shepherding. Dark purple clouds in the
west. Otto is at work in the kitchen (at his
laptop). I am cognizant of a vector of love (life),
purposeful in its haphazardness, from there to
there to here. This is the best day of my life.

dccclxxx

Why be suddenly embarrassed that
Trent Reznor was my favorite artist
for a decade? Yet, have avoided
(successfully?) angst-laced twitterings
ever since high school—a good decade
and a half of poetic retirement between
those first few sheafs I’ve hidden away
and my later “adult” attempts, during
which time my one overwhelming
passion was...acting. Splice that and
you can get all kinds of ugly. But yet.
C’est moi. I could go scarcely a year
between stage roles, it was that heavy.
And I proclaim this poetic propensity
(now eleven years solid) more serious...
more passionate than anything previous?
It is for me, I state it fact, confidently, even
without adequate retrospect or elaboration.
I am a poet. Nevertheless, the fear exists
that I would drop it clear and walk on
to whatever is next. Well. I proclaim
poetry my career and yet make a
decent enough (relatively speaking)
salary as a moderately content office
cog. But, I do this for poetry, which,
after all, is anywhere and everywhere.
I am delusional and this is good. I might
add to this melange that cinema has also
been no small passion. I recall that
during the paltry Two Weeks Notice I
laughed all the way through it—a soft
spot for Hugh Grant and my cohort,
the only excuses I can offer; how he
(cohort) covered himself with his rain
coat and I slipped my arm underneath
and held onto his thumbs and fingers.
It was ecstasy for the first time in over
ten years (literal, and perhaps figurative,
but let the story of pills fall elsewhere).
This is how love can come from nowhere,
embarrassing love, true and irrational,
often up to no good, but also full of
passion, pleasure, and inordinate gravity.
How it remains a curious joy to parse over,
question, and relish for years to come.

dccclxxix

Gets better with practice. So
tongue-in-cheek, this desire
for a love letter from a stranger.

Happiness does this to me. Ter
cets are probably the least effective
method. Fireworks at 3:44am;

do you imagine they’ll make it
to jail? Try a bigger risk today.
Send cathartic Christmas cards.

Watch three movies with Sepia
the Cat (Drift, Ice Age, and
Sunshine State); ironic how

blissful an experience. Drink
cocoa, then cry. I have a new
cellphone. Rent U-Haul for

some furniture (long enough
without any). Allow oneself
to be needy (how long has

that been?). Lie to people,
most especially yourself,
and you the honest one.

dccclxxviii

High enough, my arms
have found their way
around your waist, we who
generally dance in odd
orbits around each other,
sequences which minimize
proximity, yet now you’ve
awkwardly but calmly
backed into me. Quick
(but time is gloriously
slow) my arms work up
to clasp your shoulders,
elusive dancer. Why,
you’d stay, wouldn’t you?
Let’s part for a while and
imagine spectators, each
wanting a part of us (singly
or in combination). You,
my new friend, practically
a stranger.

dccclxxvii

“You were more mature
when you were a child,”
my father said often to me
after I left home. Well,
no wonder. With wisdom
comes the realization that
maturity is often for the
birds. Or at least inhibitions.
Perhaps it is a mistake to
confuse the two, but my
path toward pure hedonism
has never been more sure.
Just watched Adaptation,
an overly ambitious and
lovely Spike Jonze flick.
Whatever happened to him,
anyway? Ah, he’s off to
Maurice Sendak’s Wild
Things (screenplay co-
written by Dave Eggers).
Now you know (and why
shouldn’t you?). Crab
fried rice at Thai Noodle
on Geary and Leavenworth
(my one and only venture,
before I awakened to the
superiority of Osha Thai,
just across the street). A
tiny glimpse of a hard
crush (the coat-check
boy) and a roll in the
proverbial hay with a
graphic designer from The
Academy of Art (“there’s
no sciences!”). After
crab legs, the insecure
egomaniac (therapy is
for fools) changes his
mind, gleefully scribbles
a conglomerate of words
into the sand (almost
high tide now), and
then goes shopping
for a new bed.

dccclxxvi

This jumble, this collage,
while fictitious, is generally
and often a combination of
actual _____s, meant as a
sounding board, a record of
existence (most especially
while said existence is yet
extant), and some therapy,
some food for thought, a
way to differentiate and
to show that I am and
I am not, but not just
words written in sand.
What odd weather.  He
looks luscious in it
with his fresh tattoo
of who-knows-what
in Sunday comics ink
across his back.  He’s
being sweet again.
Interesting the names I
have no trouble typing
right here, and the ones
that are just too elusive.
Me.  And not me.  The
shame in both.

dccclxxv

I’ve been two years without.
And who’s that drooling seductively
into a can of Rockstar?  I thought so.
The curtains are drawn before he can
even make it through Commercial
Variations.  Backstage he flips through
his own notes, oh how he flips, finding
“the flaming laundries gushed at your
approach” and “you munch the crusts
of dawn and jerk out of sleep.”  Curses,
such egalitarian measures have
never been less successful, but
San Francisco has yet to be invaded
by Canada, China or the Middle East
(pity those who carried the Stars and
Stripes into the bathhouses, ere well
before my own time, but here I
stand perhaps mildly corrected).  It’s
bonus in the bank day.  Ah, taxes.
The I.R.S. knows me still, and
call me while I am watching
the newest prequel to Star Wars.
Almost simultaneously, a
cloistered facsimile for “boyfriend”
reads a coat-check poem and
colors himself jealous.

dccclxxiv

Trip over whatever you meant
to say to me. Tumble into my
arms, so to speak, and I’ll
carry you gently to a
choice swath of real estate,
the deed of which just hopped a
plane to Istanbul (where an
old flame is later mugged,
twice in one day). Fall on me
heavily, like a train wreck.
And so much time passes.
We’ll walk around wounded
in the drizzle, hand-in-hand,
then go home and sleep through
the morning’s meetings. Wait
patiently for a masterpiece
because you are good like that.
Mistake Lucy Lawless for
Jewel as your forearms slam
deeply into my chest, knocking
me into what was supposed to be
the End-up, a Saturday retribution,
a date with Purple Monkey at
the Berkeley BART station, and
further into Panda Express, where
I meet a guy from Toronto
and awaken in a Scottish loft
near Lake Merritt (very good;
made me cry several tears).

dccclxxiii

My mother calls it the strainer
and I can’t find it.  For blackberry
jelly she’d fill it first with a cotton
cloth, the pure juice drained ever so
slowly.  It’s anything I’m looking to
wring at the moment, particularly
flavorful or no.  Even a memory or
two from Treasure Island, a chat over
sashimi, California rolls, and
cold unfiltered sake in a box.  Even,
sure, a movie with Jennifer Lopez,
then something passionate (how it
ever happens assuredly, electricity
distributed equally; perhaps only
a myth, nothing to wring there).
How this fits with Robert Duncan
and a “burger” of salmon fillet
is all I have time to guess.
Those were desparate days,
I have to believe; clocks ticking
incessantly, weeks of sunshine
giving way to months of fog,
and then that hour or two of
rain, a heavy downpour.  Now
it’s fever (nothing tropical)
with distant sirens at two
in the morning.  I wish I
were here, so that I could
look up to the two wall vases
full of dried lavendar and
imagine my train about to
arrive, full of magical kisses
and delicate conundrums.

dccclxxii

Asia can wait, of course,
I thought, looking up at eyes
that never saw as lovely as this.
I take a drink

from Frank’s gorges of blossom
and wink like a grandfather clock.
We’re almost to a new year,
“Happy Christmas,

everyone!”  A postcard from
Gerrit in the jewelry box
with a scarf slung over it.
The rains

come for sure, I fly through
February and March, still in
America, where the lyric
has long

filed for divorce.  What
will the sewages think of next,
I wonder, as we stroll humbly
up the corkscrew avenues, the

bottlebrush graciously
combing our hairs?  “Pomade?”
he asks, and I gladly accept.
These, the days

of neither a spot on our ascots,
nor a care in the world.