SFMOMA Eva Hesse last day architecture art 3-D plexiglass perspectives Macy’s 4 videos going at once something like “sampling” mostly remember Marilyn Monroe
rainy dim sum at Yank Sing waited 35 minutes with beeper and waterfall in mall where you can “take a shower”
Stranger than Paradise with bad acting but it was Jarmusch’s first film on student budget or somesuch with Hungarian emigre changing out of her ugly dress in an alleyway
4 seasons in one day rainy San Francisco what would be springtime anywhere else but wintertime here then the windmills on I-580 like on some other planet and
snowstorm in Yosemite Valley looking for a bear because they “are a problem” out our window and up to Upper Yosemite Falls which roars all through the night over the snoring
sunshine before the second snowfall and a V-8 in the cafeteria with the chess-players whose purple caps make them look like they just came back from some medieval festival
poems by Christian Langworthy read underneath Lucille Ball calendar the “Passports” episode
panic attack in the Coit Tower elevator
rockslide blocking way out of the park for a while but breakfast at Wawona Hotel to cut the morning in half with class suck breath at 6,000 feet around snow-curves “it’s nearly June”
some pride walking San Francisco hills while “tourist” friends out of breath stop in front of Ritz-Carlton with cinnamon lollipops so we can take a picture
the heart’s last stranglehold of realism capsizes mid-tunnel at one hundred thirty-one into a dip mid-cusp what chutzpah we concentrate on eating very slowly
but it isn’t just a blind reaction from coming down with an earache-of-the-dramatically-suspect nor an i’ll-save-you-tonight-at-the-railroad-crossing -- it’s more like the same lesson learnt as the last time
then a panic-shorn this-isn’t-your-poetic-reality crosses the tracks into bedlam and hollers all “ciao bella” “ciao bello” that’s when our circus employment gets nullified
i do know that the other dead mime had two cats wearing seat belts who also wanted in the business
the bird of love is in the form of much of a heart. this shape [informs] stands up to the sands of time [with stands]. i knew this when i dug it up in arkansas: a lost blue purse of a bird upon a rock full of scant thunder; the shape of a grub but as large as a potato, it would swallow tinder, climb some wings to create another emperor. a man laughs as he catches a frisbee.
the bird of love forms much of his art. it doesn’t wear any earthworms when it flies into bed. someone is always waiting for it there. i think the name of the bird is ketterling. when it flies its wings are spoiled by the sounds of waves from i reckon a shallow body. the bird flies behind the sunshine and over the telephone
pole. the bird of love chalks it up to heart. it hops jagged rock like a cormorant, thinking about peeling an ion, discovering the essence of a hot world. i love catching it on the blue towel. i dig and i dig and the sky seems to crack. the name of the bird is kettlepiper and it always stays in such great shape.
spilt roses armsful of sparrows fine shimmery hairdo redwing bleachy 4th of July type sky fat firstgrade penciltip treetop red mapleleaf bumblebee these are things I see in the sunshine shadow of a bluegum bottlecap fortywindow birdspeak (this would be the point where my mind wanders backwoods) ... automatic birdspeak blackwing circle with a pale yellow butterfly redbird really going to town in the big city
oh but I could do it what beautiful environs whew we click I mean we kissed tipsy on Thursday night and next to the little café or walk through Golden Gate saying e.g. that my agnostic new banana Reno. . .a star sent me sleepy. . .a good run last to hit the ground right here late last night after putting stanzas into scars swearing left swearing right
just comings and goings, vignettes firetruck sirens wailing regarding my time fading away like all else completely avoiding activity or windows and just can’t walk around or try to write darker, darken makes me feel guilty
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regarding my time with firetruck sirens wailing how they fade away like all else activity out windows makes me feel guilty but i just don’t let it watching tv, closed curtains white beard, glasses completely avoiding dark, darker, darken
the fog has burnt most of the tiles off the ceiling like styrofoam they hold in some of the noise big boats out the window look like islands on the blue bay the whiteboards need to be erased i’m having trouble with stuff but i won’t write a poem about it i took a nap on the couch in the office and this i do on occasion
it’s mostly all good the breeze on the parking meter that says “take off your jacket” sept- ember
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a woman’s standing next to a “let us copy” sign her blouse’s pattern zigzags over her breasts while nearby a confused pigeon stumbles around and around concreted azaleas
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alleyway skyline over Nob Hill what windows there are mirror blue over a yellow bicycle and a lady with a Chico’s bag picking up a can
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a tall green businessman spits onto the sidewalk next to National American Bank “STOP”
I said I was thirsty. It arrived in a tall glass and it was very good stuff that I wound up dancing with and kissing. Its hands were soft and it had long thin arms with tiny alien tattoos. We got slick with sweat and had a bit of fun together.
What makes elves in your cereal do we know? Were our selves in there and how will you? Might you kindly pass along to me the most appropriate numbers? Remember reading to me in the private car in the train across Europe with spaghetti on your head: will you please now describe your emotions? How faraway is farfalle? Is fusilli, rotini, angel’s hairs? Can you tell me what that blur is? Is it a little bitty star? What’s the difference between imagination and fantasy?
to be forgiven in the air the whole seizure bequeathed of new silhouettes now dirty o dark breathless rhyme some night blue sounds wrench pop into blood the happy Charles the wind in our heads
across the blinded avenue in the filthy daylight roar of our latest deadly scourge was a sexual blank-blank it let in the feelings of spring (our spring re- flexes giddily sprung) but you’d never soothe the legendary dark
December days nor
their out-wooded elfs
lessen it be performed a wild and mythical secret
o beautiful furry solace against a drenchéd boulevard the colors of the hairy roses near the sea’s bailiwick
of love the change of the sky what plunks o don’t even try to get it all in
We snuck stealthily through a decade and a half of such magnitude. Now that I have you (or I’ve had you over), I’m spilling with blue youth like a frenzy of eyes the glowingest blue.
This, of course, is the decade when the tablet of what I tell you without yelling is not the pill that I’ve become. Which is the man I never wanted to be (I’m so sorry). This is as close to the gravitas
of inner thought (we only use 1% of its potential) and what will happen to me over a decade and a half from now (here I am). Never was there such a frenzy in your eyes but when they glowed grey or with
those little glowing star-shaped specks. I never wanted to be predictable. But the hills from which I’ve come had just enough radioactivity to drive me to sixty years old. We should all fear gravity.
You’ll love that there are many decades in which 40% of everything is all about what’s going on and 19% is all about deciding what to put in the history books. The trucks barking next to the simmering
summer swimming pool are not exactly what was supposed to happen. Any sense of WOW! of OMG! of My 60 year old eyes! is what the doctor asks of the antiquated plums (a blue glow) to assess what’s right and what’s true.
A trendy restaurant will be gone very soon. When they are drawn, plumb the orange eyes whose walls sizzle like a beefsteak. Then kiss ’em at square one on the half-lips of this snapshot. Which can’t be read because it’s a feeling of my pants and soles, bar none. I say it has to be the whole enchilada; a pepper of at least enough fire that keeps me comfy; not one that gets my fists clenched about. Of what is ourselves? Our selves that won’t smoke like when being hard- pressed into a stony girder. Here is myself. I sat this down before I started but the smack of a fist on my nostrum was the doozy what burned me. When yourself catches me in a groundhog headroll while breathing over the audience
