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