mmdcccviii

Swami Swami
Bing Bong
Gina Lollo-
brigida.

You never get a
second chance
to make a first
impression is
not always one
hundred per-
cent accurate.
For example,
it occurs on
plenty an
occasion that,
with but the firm
handshake you
share with a
new acquaint-
ance, you can
immediately
sense (or even
“know”), at
times visc-
erally, that
this hand
belongs to
someone
destined to
become a men-
tor, a primary
confidante, your
best friend and/or
long-term lover,
if not life-long
partner.  With
one firm shake
of the hand.
That’s all it can
take to discover
one with whom, for
each passing week
to follow, you’ll en-
joy hours of titillat-
ing, salon-like, deep
and pressing conver-
sations that inspire
not just the two of
you, but all of the
friends you accum-
ulate simply by vir-
tue of the celebrity-
like charisma you as
a duo command,
wherever you hap-
pen to be.  And
after the throngs
are enlightened by
these educational
romps, what will
follow are con-
versations until
deep into the
night, or more
often than not,
into the early
morning as the
light begins to
glimmer about
and the local
birdsong is in
full fare, with
just the two of
you; more end-
less, captive,
seismically mind-
blowing, career-
enhancing, and
even more pass-
ionate than the
earlier round-
table engage-
ments, filled with
laughter and gleeful
repartee, replete
with flirtation, eso-
teric mind-games,
and just enough
slight disagree-
ment that either
of you can triumph-
antly sway the
other at least
slightly in the
other’s direction.
These evenings
will see the con-
sumption of scads
of middle- to upper-
range-priced bottles
of wine (because your
new best friend has
an expansive cellar,
and knows just the
places – or can ascer-
tain in a jiffy – to find
the best spirits at
bargain prices, being
friends with vintners,
bulk traders and
sommeliers world-
wide).  These nights
are libido-ridden
and rife with com-
pelling import,
which must be dis-
cussed at length –
and soon, of course,
and plans are quickly
made to do just that,
right before you stag-
ger out the door and
into the the filtered
rays of a sunrise, rays
that dance toward you
from heaven (or there-
abouts) and are inter-
spersed with patchy
introspective-conduc-
ing fog.  Then, after
happily walking for
a while, and emerg-
ing from a final
patch of fog just
rotund enough to
encapsulate you
and your momen-
tary fantasy, you
are brought back
to the here and
now, back to this
first encounter
with whom you
are by now more
certain than the
intimate connec-
tion of the flesh of
a couple of palms
during a firm hand-
shake.  That moment
when you are clear
of the imminence
of what will be a
lifetime connection,
which will expand
beyond that first
electric grip into 

each day henceforth.
It all begins
with this 15 or
20 minute mo-
ment during
which your
spine tingles
with anticipation
of what will come.
And then you trade
cards, your new
best friend pro-
mises a call with-
in a week or two
to follow up with
something or other
so that you can
be gifted a back-
channel to a man
whom you asolute-
ly must contact
immediately, for
whatever upward-
moving reason.
And as your new
soulmate fades
into the crowd
and the conver-
sation still re-
sounds in your
head, you’re
nothing short
of giddy with
prospect, pal-
pably sonic
with relevance,
when mere
minutes pre-
vious, your
head was
clogged, stag-
nating with the
awareness of
the insignifi-
cance of your
life, which has
now become of
grave importance
to you as you
pocket your
new power-
mate’s card
and bid an
overzealous
Farewell un-
til next week
(or so), so sat-
isfied with the
assurance that
you’ve found
a new mentor
for business
and social
ventures and
who knows
what intriguing
partnerships and
adventure to come.

However, of course,
your new acquaint-
ance, the unbeknownst
burgeoning co-conspir-
ator you’ve imagined,
after mere moments
of gliding through
many admirers,
stopping to speak
at any and all
occasion along
the way, may
quite possibly,
by the end of
the evening, if
not sooner, have,
like many others
before, completely
forgotten you and
your life-altering
moment; may
even, perhaps
never again
register a
glimpse of
a memory
of you or
your first
and only
encounter.
Not once.
Not ever.

Swami Swami
Bing Bong
Gina Lollo-
brigida.

mmdcccvii

Westward, Ho!

This length
of time
(this length!!)
is nothing
that I ever
once en-
visioned,
was une-
quivocally
never part
of any plan
(unless con-
spired). None-
theless, this
solitude is
what I
choose,
having
seeming-
ly such lit-
tle choice,
as it were.
As it were?
It isn’t. I
must move
on. I do.

mmdcccvi

The Scapegoat

You see me
cocky, scattered
and high when
perfectly sober.
Drawing con-
clusions from
disheveled over-
compensation
makes sobriety
suck. Quite
simply, it does
not clear the air
between us,
never mind our
heads. When
supposition
equals real-
ity it's your
withdrawal,
not mine,
that loses
me in the
end.

mmdcccv

Aleecia’s Words

Wriggly Freckles
at Widow’s Peak
Pointe catches a
spider. Oh yes she
duzz! Aleecia reck-
ons that’s just the
trouble with kibble
these days. Clumps
of dust is not a meal,
as far as she can see.
And since Freckles is
not a vegan or any-
thing, and her digest-
ion is good (In fact,
it's superior! says
her vet).... it’s just
that her knees are
a bit wobbly. And
she’s got a bad heart.
But what’s a messed
up ticker, anyway.
We’ve all got some-
thing. And Aleecia
knows a lot about
bad hearts.
Certainly
enough not
to worry about
such things when
there’s the can-
cer. And the
scourge of
cars that
whiz by The
Lemon Shoppe
day in and day
out. Freckles’
hunger, briefly
expunged by the
spider, hoofs it –
all the way to the
incoming Pacific,
gets wet right up
to her weak knees
and then dances a
tarantella on the beach,
which is beiging from a
swiftly-sinking sun that’s
soon to dusk, so that the
ocher ball is pretty much
aligned with the end-
less, salt-licked sand
making endless love
with the Pacific. Over-
stuffed boxes of lemons
(with an occasional lime)
are stacked clean up to
the tin-wavered roof
of the nothing fancy
shack that is perched
between the beach below
and Highway One just
above, home of
Freckles. And of
Aleecia,
who happily
claps the tempo
of the tarantella
as she watches her
companion. Freckles
the Fancy-Dancer!
she yells down to
the dancing dog,
words that mute
quickly – what
with the whizzing
cars at her back
and the incoming
waves that lap at the
horizon. You’re just
a Fancy-Dancer – Oh
yes you are! Each
of Aleecia’s words
go damp, and then
settle somewhere
upon the even-
ing’s spindrift
that blankets
the waves
as far as
her eyes
can see.

mmdccciv

I’m Not Alone
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem IV*)

Worldwide, fervent belief in conspiracy
theories is at an all-time high, both
in the magnitude of the population who
adhere firmly to the veracity of one
or more, but most radically in the number
of such theories assumed 100% true on an
individual level. I just made this fact up,
to be honest, but it’s only a rhetorical
question. And because duh. Back at camp,
we’d always know when it was time for the
party to start when the rebel forces were
approaching. Their transportation apparati
were always in stark contrast with those of
ours. There’s a rhyme and a reason for
everything, as Shakespeare incessantly did
not attempt to convince his contemporaries.
The announcement was barked over the loud-
speakers: “The rebel forces are approaching.
The rebel forces are approaching.” We’d all
quickly slipped into battle gear, donned our epic
battle-appropriate make-up and then we would
dance for days on end. I really miss those days.
Sure, there was slavery. But dancing through
days and nights that moved as slowly and as
deliciously as syrup slowly seeping down through
the middle of a whopping stack of flapjacks
(not to mention the otherworldly plunge
into each disc of butter, one on top, one on
bottom, and ones smashed between the center
of each cake, along with the thousand flak
jackets seen pulsating through a hallucinatory
mist in contortions that could only have been
locked within mirrors one normally only en-
counters at the county fair (remember those?),
yet were actually dozens of not variations of
the ecstatic raver slipping slowly through the
party’s glorious goo but several dozen meat-
heads from my own platoon; the rest of
the seemingly endless ultra-hedonistic wide-
eyed party crew. They were the shit, those
parties. Certainly enough to give anyone
familiar pause when hearing the variations
on hyperbolic adjectives used years hence
to describe a night (or two) at Studio 54,
(for example). Those men swathed in camo
and dripping with bayonets put today’s
attempts at weekends full of fireworks
and sweat and the so-called slaves of the
circuit to shame. Circuit parties? Lugubrious
imitations of impossible to render minutia of
a memory of a sliver of time spent slathered
and body-slamming at those war-gatherings
of yore. Hmmph! Today’s bodies puffily
jiggling with shame. No pounding here. And
those bayonets, which by the bottom of the
cake had found a thousand new meanings,
each one a vast epistimological distance
from any war zone or deep governmental
basement. Those good old days.

They say it’s interplanetary progeny, a
proliferation of these disproportioned kids,
something the spiritual journals call the
“homogenization” of human-centric and
other human-like species. Human-like. Ha.
Many of these carry not an ounce of blood,
no watery substance. And hearts? We’re
becoming a vein-free galaxy, they say.
And this is a good thing?! A culture devoid
not only of the heroism of hedonism and
the inevitable and completely impossible
to describe intertwining of the knives and
the long barrels of the era of bayonets;
devoid of culture itself. Talking tubes
incapable of speaking but one language
or of uttering a phrase that is neither
selfish nor utterly empty.

But this I can say without conviction. You
can mark my words, as much as one or
two even matter in a moment of time
such as this: this dearth, these point-
less talking tubes, the homogenization,
despite its funny-looking kids…I tell you
it is but a cover-up for the real story; a
diversion from the plan already being
implemented. The truth is out there,
all right. For whatever it’s worth. And
we’ll all come to know this plan. Intim-
ately. And unless there’s anyone in here
who gets everything I’m trying to tell you,
we’ll all, each and every one of us, know
all too late what atrocities this heinous
plan entails. We’ll know way too late,
I tell you.  Meaning we will never know.

But, men, you should all stand with me
on one thing for certain. Those were
some damn fine parties back then. So
fine that our wars always brought the
enemies together. You remember, John.
Surely I’m not alone here. You and I, we’d
be royalty. Royalty, I tell you. It was war.
It was life. We were the shit. You remember
now? I know you do. Man, do I ever miss the
war. Those visions, a camaraderie only the
jungle could ever offer and by far the purest
love any living member of the tribe has ever
experienced dancing. Dancing. The buzz of
war, I tell you. [He clutches his heart like no
tomorrow]. I seriously miss the camo, the slow-
motion camo, the war and its men. I miss them
all something fierce. Like rear view windows,
like all of those ancient pyramids’ objets d’art,
like soft-boiled eggs, like birds, and, oh, eggs,
but more than all of those things combined,

what I miss the most is those good old days.

*the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
  attention.

mmdccciii

Oct. 30

If I say it,
it is true.

If I say it,
it is true.

My writing
lacks logic.

Like me, you
say, going

from tid-
bit to tid-

bit as if
everything

is in a pro-
per place –

has an app-
ropriate loc-

ale, one thing
leading, con-

sequently, to
the other. Like

narrative anyone
can follow, and

occasionally nod in
vigorous agreement,

as if to relay “This
makes sense, I con-

cur!” Like chron-
ology, like an

engaging bed-
time story told

with the primary
purpose of putting

one to sleep. Sound-
ly, with intermittent

dreams (anti-logic,
experimental poet-

ics, non sequiturs,
etc.). I arose at

seven a.m. I lunched
at eleven. I interviewed

at two. I slept around
one in the morning. 

I slept around one

loud morning.  I

am uncloudy and I

rate the logic of

my world. Breathe
in. Breathe out.

This day is very
alive. In fact,

it rocks! Today
rocks! And I rule!

Oh, happy day
of the living!

mmdcccii

Art Not Play?

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again
      whom we love.
                                                   —Frank O’Hara

Today,
the city
clearer,
I walk it.

Up and
down its
many hills.

The Far
East is
as far
away as
El Segundo.

Which is
either
very far
away or
very close

depending
on your
perspective.

mmdccci

I’m Not Sure About This One...
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem* III)

In my world a magician
is a thief and a poet is
a con artist.  Right?  OK,
you’d be correct in point
out that I’m adrift, drop-
ping big blankets over
people.  Some people.
Such as those who can
be instantly figured out,
of course.  Because, sure,
much art (many, actually)
is a con above all else.  If
nothing but.  A pro, how-
ever, gets with the pro-
gram, is on the ball (but
why is it always only
one ball?).  A pro is a go-
getter, a meat-eater and,
most importantly, a bread-
winner (hint: BECAUSE HE
HAS A JOB!  Or two.).
Make no bones about it,
I’ve tried both sides.
Pro.  And con. I  guess
you might say that
makes me versatile.

*the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
  attention

mmdccc

A Page of Thoughts

My handwriting was never the best, 

but it gets worse and worse.  Here,

a word looks like “hex” — which I love — 

but not being the cliché who can 

all-too-often barely read his own 

handwriting, today editing hand

written drafts.  I’m allowed to
sit at a computer.  And so.  And I 

never used to edit for any considerable
length of time, but my situation
over the past few years seems
to have greatly increased my
editing time and process
[process?], while at the
same time, thanks especially,
I am certain, to my transience,
connected also to my lack of
ownership, of a laptop or a
desktop [one without time
limits which has me hop-
ping from library to library,
etc.] or even a decent cell-
phone…. AND there’s the problem 

of nowhere mine to go, no
where mine to sit.  Blame,
blame, blame.  I do a lot of
blaming.  I know.  A lot.  People
tell me this all the time.  Perfect
strangers.  Today I say that maybe 

we’re too complex for blame.  Or of 

remembering our own names. I know. It's me. 

I do, i swear, spend much private time “owning up” —

but I take a stand in making certain to
publicly act on attempts to know when
NOT to blame myself, and when to
firmly stick to understanding when
(don’t laugh!) I am the victim.  Know

when to kowtow.  Know when to bow out.
Or when to just bone up.  Ow! Just shut up
about it all, you’re hurting my head

on a regular but limited basis!  “Hey, let’s 

have coffee and talk about

this sometime.”  With all of the
seriousness in the world, that
request. Anyway...
The hex, or these things, while
often wonderful, fun, innocuous,
interesting, odd, not always too
overly dramatic or logical, graph-
ic, sinister without the cynicism,
or, no, I mean the other way
around. I think. Of me. Occasion-
ally (I mean who else? I’m a good

person. I mean I am good, right?
So genuine, so full of crap, without
suffering from the worry
of being too Gemini [a gleefully
sincere lie!]?).  I work hard striving
for good, trying to comprehend
what that might mean and why it
might or might not be meaningful.
Many things help us forget and grow 

distant, relax into that conundrum
like an oxymoron, fall apart.  I
fall to pieces, trying to fix things.
This shows my simplicity, my com-
plexity, the spectacular spectrum
of my complexion, the horrible sense
of if all.  The horrible sensations.  The luxury
of baggage.  I’m falling into my fading “I’m
right and you aren’t” mentality (empathy being

the line that separates adulthood and child-
hood — sadly, most seem never to make it
over that hurdle).  These have to be driven 

attempts, done on regular bases, at “being as” else. 

Someone who, preferably, holds values quite independent 

from those of your own (Do you have even one?  Allow me 

to check.), if not at complete odds with them.  You go first. 

What’s your cuppa regarding my culpability.  Sometimes 
I am.  Just like you are.  Just like Robert Culp is.

mmdccxcix

Sakrificial Gravy

Milk like
Nick’s (ramp-
ant) rice farm
shudder with the
farts of the wild
rams (and their res-
pective ramettes) and
it’s so totally amped, hasn’t
seen rain in the timespan it
took me to attend three new
Thai eateries’ grand openings
(each, consequently, to rave reviews)
here at the opposite end of the Pac-
ific…. So, it’s the videocam
again, it’ll always do in an in-
stant (neither of us is yawning);
an instant of love over the
mildew of lost connections,
I think aloud with the (by now)
tired and sleepy crickets. A
quick list of the cons of an
unwitting conversationalist
(unwilling, though?) means
much more than a possible
risk that never got a chance
to even return home a pro (a
live one, anyway). Thus, this
prospectus (in perpetuity): he
begs with his legs until he
probably believes he can prove
non-proximal conversion —
but from this end of deprav-
ity he (as usual) spews his top
(which clearly should be crim-
son red!). Stop. No. There is
nary a tract of (his) (thought?)
process (flitting as swiftly and
as flirtatiously as his eyelashes
and as endearingly as his aping
of my own curse phrases —
which I conduct in honor of my
dad, I always say after a spate —
only he twists the phrases so in-
side out until all sorts of hil-
arity simmers deep in my gut and
erupts as an explosion of
gratitude and forgiveness).
Then his quick change of
subject, which is intentional,
not in the least non sequitur,
and so dizzying that I forget
whether we’re dining at
The Ritz this evening or (in his
case, tomorrow morning) at
The International House of
Baloney. But I can clearly
ascertain that the guy sitting
at the table next to ours (or,
rather, mine?) has a lifeless
hand cupping his crotch while
he concentrates deeply into
his phone. This scene is so nor-
mal as to generate satisfac-
tion. I might as well be speak-
ing directly into my table-
neighbor’s crotch. It is, I de-
cide, a good thing I can write
in the stead of whatever I’m
paying for at whenever mo-
ment I decide is payday. I
remember an entire
city filled with internet. But
I seem memory-free when it
comes to the serial dramas and
serial killers that crumbled and
corrupted it. The city is who I
love. Do you? Dehydration may
yet turn out to be true love after all.
I found you in this city, lover
of mine, conducting a wok. It
is a story of two poles on a
big ball of seasons; delicious
with stir-fry (the air is perm-
eated ginseng). The grieving
process is enormous, hyper-
bolic, ignorant (most hope-
fully) and always induces hy-
perventilation. We shall meet
next week when the icecaps
finish melting and will of course
have no choice but to collapse
into a bear hug that slowly
works its grip all the way down
to our twenty throbbing, drowning,
electric-ecstatic toes. You pick
your reality. And I will pick mine.

mmdccxcviii

Coiffured

It’s not my tome to pen
(and what a pen it would be!),
but the necessity for this ask task
might as well look like defeat (May
I borrow your set of clippers, please?
My last two pair have been, sadly,
stolen. And as for what remains of
this last set, well, I just accidentally
chopped the electrical wire in
two.), but it is.

                         So, you lost all
sensation in your left abdomen?
Good news: The Depression!

                                             People
go around saying beards are passé
now. But I’m in luck! Because this
is San Francisco. And in San Francisco, be
you an actual panhandler (that word
harks a bit too far back in this neck
of the woods, but I guess could mean
one who doesn’t have a job, one who
doesn’t have a place to live and/or one
who doesn’t have a penny), or you’re a
tech zillionaire, the good news is this:
beards are still very much in fashion.

Don’t think for a moment, however, that just
because I am double-up on my luck (because of my
profession) and I live the lifestyle that has been
handed to me that I cannot relate to the guy
here who is in the fishing industry.

And panhandlers?

(Being still, as they say, in on the joke, I have yet to
hold my cupped hands out sad-facedly toward anything
but the internet.)

Also, just because I’m queer (and obviously
have no idea where I am going with this) does not
mean I give a dime to any Tom, Dick or Harry on
the street. I say people need to own it in order to
earn it. Not that I even pay attention to the street.
Or the people on them.

                              At least Daddy always says
that I like to think of a runway as a garage with a
slice of carpet down the middle (somewhere be-
tween the Jaguar and the Leisure Van. Or maybe
we could place the carpet here, next to the Tesla.
Now wouldn’t that be very today?)....

By the way, the Jaguar is our little family joke.
However, I’m unsure who in the family still
approves of it being a joke anymore. That is, ever
since Skeeter passed during the safari back in ’88.
(Skeeter drove the Jaguar once. With Billy Joel in
the passenger seat. Or so the story goes, anyway.)

Honestly, I think this show is going to be such a
crumble. It’s like Eve always says to me:
You do such gritty work! How do you ever do it?!

I’ll tell you how I do it —
and this is just between you and me —
I make it real, honey. I make it real.

mmdccxcvii

Chicken Ships

Today, I’m of a mind
to beam up every
therapy session in
which I’ve partici-
pated and start over.
Also on my mind
(or on its to do list):
settle up on the dif-
ferences between bro,
bruh, bra and blood.
Sure, what it all comes
down to (and this is me
letting you know that I’m
in on the joke) is solv-
ing such puzzles as
How to act crazy and
not be crazy, How to
reconcile subsequent
crazies with back when
crazy was good (Crazy
good!), How often to
pose as crazy, When
to attempt to pass as
officially crazy (whe-
ther crazy or not) and
How to simply be crazy.
If I make fun of the line
between crazy and not
crazy does that make me
sane? Just in case it’s
worth a try, this has
been my attempt.

mmdccxcvi

that moment

when you
realize that
you’re be-
ing hood-
winked,
and that
you can’t
do a damned
thing about it.

mmdccxcv

Hell Yeah!
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem* II)

Here’s what I say:
“Hells yeah!!” That’s
at least what I say on
nights such as the one
through which I am
presently scooting.
It's a disaster (this
particular night).
Like Oh, what a night
(Cause I ain’t got no
money...)! But I can dance,
that I can do. Watch
me exit the stage all
by myself, head to the
coat check, suck the
coat check guy’s
lower lip (just a little
bit; it’s a thing), walk
out into the night fog.
Done. Alone. Alone
and done. Not that com-
pletion and/or singularity
in and of themselves is bad,
nor in need of iteration (cf,
further previous hyperbolic
journal entries), except...
I’m a weirdo anyway, we
can all agree on that (right?).
I’m not actually done, how-
ever. I mean, I sit here writ-
ing this to you sitting next to
a brand new friend (also a
weirdo, but I think that’s
probably okay). Oh, if life
were circuitous and evolv-
ing in any significant
sort of way. . . .

*the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
attention

mmdccxciv

Brave Words

(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.

mmdccxciii

West Coast Mayoral Debate

(a more gleeful topic than the G.O.P.,
which my friend Joe Duffy alternatively
expands to call Gloomy Old Pussies)

“What’s so wrong about being smitten
by a person you don’t know except from
the internet?” I ask.

"Did you just sequitize my non sequitur?”
he’s pissed and questioning my ageless
query, adding “You sockmaking sock-

squirter! You smock-wrecker! You fog-
headed smokemonger. You, you, you
smack-cracker, you!!”  “That’s awfully

artful and artfully upstanding of you,”
I meander, (definitely a bit starry-

eyed, I’ll be the first to admit).

You start with London, a European
capital, and you end with sex (albeit
that of the the perpetuating persuasion).

And then… “That’s Mayor Sporkbreaker
to you,” crackles the one speaker on the
dais, the one directly underneath the mike

covered with a black, fuzzy, spongy, mat
erial that all principals and politicians are
overly familiar with (or maybe not, being

on the wrong side of the microphone to
have to deal with such things).  He has
spoken the obvious, the oblivious mayor.

And besides, this two-bitcoin town has
no room for such resentment, such
bittermongering, such grudges against

those who are cooked up and served
a doctoral degree (and not an M.D.,
mind you).  Oh, the riff-raff amongst

us all.  And we, mere fodder for the
riff and the raff.   Later, settled com
fortably on my couch, with my overly

well-mannered (at least today) cat,
overlooking the sooty, foggy and det
erminedly unromantic rooves below.

I mouthed her name (using only my
tongue and teeth).  London.  Breed.
I picked up my all-in-one and dialed

M (for Mayor Spotmaker, of course),
the always gifted palomine, and re
minded him (once again) that unless

he had lost his faculties or unless he
was lost faculty (in the Albee/Virginia
Woolf sense), then…. Oops!  That is

precisely the moment I remembered
that they’re both vegans, for health

reasons.  Always the hopeful nincom

poop, I closed out the connection with
such a terrible swiftness that my aged
mind quickly returned to normal.  Longing.

mmdccxcii

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.

mmdccxci

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

temporary

spaces semi-
tented beneath 

metropolitan 

freeways here
and there.
Tit. For
tat. And

amen to 

that.

mmdccxc

Red Disguise

"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.

mmdcclxxxix

The Tall Green Circle to Heaven

stands on its hind legs for height;
no matter, ill-fated. Never thirsty
for the infinite blue that is always
slurping away at its tendrils, which

the big green circle warms
with its cusps, never knowing
the red of the fire it creates,
nor too high on itself to really even

pay attention to the loudest shades
of lipstick floating beneath and
among and around the tall circle's
lowest green limbs, which — big gasp,

effortless words — are red as the backsides
of some of the shinier animals that
roll gleefully down the
short hill all day long. The lips-

ticks floating in and among the
darkening green of the dusk, the
shushing in and the shushing out
like sounds the skins of wings make.

Funny how they, the shushing sounds
makers, never fly or even float above
the infinitely blue drug this sometimes
mid-afternoon sky, or the sky of the

early morning or sometimes the sky at the
stroke of midnight, never float above the
still blue, beneath or around the tall green
circle standing on its hind feet (for height),

never float out of the still blue water, these
(red?) shushing wings, the water that is and
was the bay, is and was filled with the shiniest
animals which never fly up and over or float

across. The wonder. The tall tree in the middle
of the tall green circle that envelops the tall tree
and all of the green and the short hill from which
the tree rises and down which the shiny animals

roll gleefully; the green tree, up which now the
bay seems to climb, is climbing, so that the blue
water (infinitely blue) is not simply beneath or
around or among the loveliest limbs of the tree,

but rises further still up to the net sack at the
beautiful green tree's longer arms, all hidden
from most of the universe (perhaps?) by the
tall circle (green) that stands on its hind feet

frantically looking for heaven. The
circle, the entire body of the tree
standing on its hind legs (which can
feel the coolness of the water as it

rises, rises), gasping. Gasping
THESE ARE RED!! the feet of the
tree to which the snout of the tree
now points deliberately, frenetically,

until finally, and ever so slowly,
the tree begins to be mellifluously
sucked into the above — up to the next circle;
this, the endless cycle of the heavenless tree.

mmdcclxxxviii

Kevin Tighe
walks into
a bar and
belts out a
very loud and
gargled:  E-
MERGENCY!


& just as
everyone
jumps out
of their
seats and
are on their
various ways
to the aisles


(the most pop-
ular route being
bottoms of legs
barely skimming
the tops of vac-
ated seats),


he, Kevin Tighe,
turns his head
toward the pro-
jector and stares
up into it (at me)
and says:


You can thank
me for that one.

mmdcclxxxvii

Jewel Lee vs. Jujube

Jack & Jill
vs. The Hill
were at the
Jewel Bee
Jubilee.
Which is
just a jest,
a silly way
to say any
thing be
sides today;
anything ex
cept last
night + the
deep and bitter
end of the
night before

last.  A joule 

is a unit of 

electoral,
magest
erial and
thermal
under
wear,
some
thing
shiny
and
bright,
worn
skinny, it
is but one
attempt
to broach
an identity,
like that of
you or that
of me.  I’ve 

taken this as 

metrical, a 

unit of squealy

property, this

freakin’ lout
of a day.  Fort

unately it is
fairly abnormal 

(No?  It is not!),
but about a quarter 

of an inch magical, 

the lips of which are 

not madrigal.  & here

is a side-fantasy: when
shouldn’t there be
a day when the
Mrs. of which stands 

at the ready, right here 

on Barbary Lane?  Oh, 

how I do so very much wish
it true, just so I could say hello
through all of this
haywire!  But that un
plain Olympia who never
intended to be climbed
like a San Francisco hill
but lovingly embraced
into, engulfed, in a
floaty way like
How Sweet Is
My Valley (a con-
fusion of a story
about the state
of Tennessee and the
flick by John Ford
and, yes, even like
the rich and mellifluent
voice of Tennessee
Ernie Ford).  All in all,
you do the math, a for-real
day approaching — but
never equaling — the
entire previous year
of them.  Yep, and
did you know,
well, of course you
did, that individually,
we’re each + all
~80% H20.  And as united
as we may stand, we are
never (please do under-
stand), not ever, (listen!)
undivided.  No matter
our individual stances.
In fact, me being me
(that’s me=me; and this
is, please, just between
you + me and me + you) is 

something like the factoid that 

broke the camel’s back and
was found the very next day
in a haystack — that is a pair
(or so) of facts.  More
to my point, I think:
charity persists, cherries
are picked (and are full of
the pits) and chastity;
well, that’s a bust.
Isn’t this all no-
thing but my inevitable
attempt at jubilance,
after all?  Even here,
stuck at the very bottom
of my heart like a pit, 

I heave out a salty Hooray!;

and do not forget a Yip Pee!