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Mason & Geary Street - San Francisco, 98
i remember seeing you
sitting at the corner
silent
watching
long scraggly hair
tattered clothes
tattered life
cardboard sign
"I have AIDS
please help"
please help
please help
please help
people wouldn't look at you
and ignored you
and pretended they didn't see you
and looked everywhere
but where you were
as you were watching them
not watching you
i snapped your picture
and caught your existence
on film
now AIDS can't hurt you
you cannot die
you are immortal
immortal
immortal
immortal
you are fuckin superman
...
i wrote
last night between beer, chips & bad conversation
i began writing a poem on a bar napkin,
i wrote like a fire
& grabbed another napkin
& wrote
& grabbed another
& wrote
& when i was done
i wrote on the bar table
on someone's glass
on some girl's purse
on some ugly mother*ucker's forehead
on someone's arm
on the curve of a woman's back
on the ceiling fan spinning above me
on someone's contacts
on the bartender's eye
on some girl's big fake breasts
(twice)
on a crucifix above the doorway
on some girl's tongue
on a draft of Guinness
on a bar stool
on some girl's clit
on the electronic poker machine in the corner
where it still smells like musty beer & frat boy barf
& when i wrote on an painting of irish writers
that big gorilla of a bouncer grabbed me by the neck &
yelled "get yo ass out of here, you sonovabitch!"
& tossed my ass out-
i hit the sidewalk with a thud
& when i was sitting on the sidewalk
a l o n e
smelling the exhaust of cars & the scent of the stars
above me
like a Van Gogh painting dripping on to the museum floor,
i began to write some more.
...
The Typerwriter
It annoys the hell
out of me knowing
that the tool I
cherish most was
used to describe
the gentle things
she did for me,
the beauty of her
actions and how much
I loved her.
It was a filthy little
liar. I blame it entirely.
"Bad! Shame on you!
Only speak the truth!
I don't want you telling
any more lies! No more,
you little shit! You speak
the truth for now on,
you got it?"
I rolled in a sheet
of paper, licked my
fingers and sat ready.
I was going to write
like nobody had written before.
It was silent.
Bastard!
...
In love for 6 years
There is no
worse
misery
than knowing
she is
your
soulmate
while
she is
in the
arms
of
another
man.
...
Frostbitten Love & Cold Toes
I wanted
to wrap
myself
in your
love,
but
you are
like a
blanket
on a cold
winter's
morning
that never
covers
your
feet.
...
20 Minutes
20 minutes
after i put
my clothes
in the washer,
i realized
i forgot
to take out
a piece of paper
i had scribbled
a small poem on
from my
pants pocket.
it was a poem
that jumped
in my mind
as i was
walking to my
favorite Thai restaurant
this afternoon.
i remember
what i had wrote,
well, most of it
anyway, but
i can never
write it down
again
as good as i
got it the
first time.
i thought
i would be mad
that i forgot
my poem in my
pants pocket,
but there is
a certain romance
in knowing
my words
will never
be read
by anyone,
never be seen
again, never
be put on paper.
i kind of
like that.
...
Put down your pen or get in the trailer
I've always wondered
what I would do
when I was happy
& hadn't recently
been burned by love
since it is easy
to write about sour love.
Without a broken heart,
its much harder to write.
Any fool & his sister
can write about lost love.
I mean, what do you do?
Do I go to a
white-trash bar,
pick up a woman
with 6 kids, a 5 pack-a-day
cigarette habit,
give her heroin
some meth
put on a stained
wife-beater
& move in
to her trailer?
Do I yell constantly,
smack the kids around,
eat greasy chicken
& beat her?
Is she not a
guarantee of a
bad relationship
to soon end
that would fuel
my future writing?
I'd soon be
writing again
in no time!
Get the pen out!
Turn on the computer!
Turn on the typewriter!
I'm doin' me some writin'!
Or maybe I would
stay- sweet Jesus-
I'd be proud of
my 6 thug children,
encourage a 9 pack-a-day
cigarette habit
do heroin
do meth
& love my toothless
wife & her tornado-magnet
trailer. But then
I'd really have
something to write about-
Maybe I'll just keep
my mouth shut.
Maybe silence
is golden. Or maybe
writing about
lost love isn't
really writing.
Maybe its the 032a
of college English
courses. Its that
course that anyone
can enroll in
without any previous
classes.
Charles Bukowski
did say that love is a
dog from hell, but
I always preferred to
say love is a double-ended
match. Either way,
I fuckin hate trailers.
...
I'd bite your goddamned arm too!
i saw a
Jackson Pollock
at the
SAN FRANCISCO
MUSEUM OF
MODERN ART
and I wanted
to grab it
while naked
and rub it on
my body and
roll on the
floor as the
security guards
had heartattacks
"OH GODDAMN!
OH GODDAMN!
SOMEONE HELP!
YOU CAN'T DO THAT!"
and as they'd
scream and tug
at me to pull
this work of
art from
my naked body,
I would snarl
and bite
them and
then I
would begin to
eat the canvas
until all
that remained
was me sitting
naked on the
floor of the
SAN FRANCISCO
MUSEUM OF
MODERN ART
looking like
a fuckin
silly maniac
with a crowd
of people
near me
in wide-eyed
horror
with my
hearty
burps
breaking
the silence.
...
where is my mind
where is my mind
not with me
gone
away
coffee break
out to lunch
on fuckin vacation
because if it was
with me
i wouldn't want you
it would warn me
and yell at me
like my alarm clock
at 7am
"FORGET HER!"
"FORGET HER!"
"FORGET HER!"
"...what?..."
"ASSHOLE! I SAID
FORGET HER!
THAT'S RIGHT!
YOUR ALARM CLOCK
IS TALKING TO YOU!"
Oh sweet Jesus!
where is my mind
how much fuckin coffee
can it drink?
her hand brushed
against mine
and it was the
softest thing i
ever felt
where is my mind
where is my mind
where is my mind
panic like rabies
my face acned with
your lipstick
and i want to
be in you
but you are
the forbidden
eden fruit
tempting me
tempt
tempt
juicy apple
salivation
with your brown eyes
your soft skin that
is begging
touch me
touch me
and your
stomach i want
to fall asleep on
close my eyes
and go away
where is my mind
where is my mind
where is my mind
where is my mind
...
Urbanization of a silent scream
A mother & her daughter cross the
street to the empty side because
(he's) walking their way (Murder).
A woman locks her door because
(he's) standing on the street corner
waiting for the walk signal (Carjacking).
A white woman feels violated as (he)
opens the door for her (Rape). A secretary
rudely tells (him) what floor to take
the elevator to and rolls her eyes (Drugdealer).
In the elevator, people stand away
from (him), giving nervous looks and
half-smiles (Dirty). The lady
looks down and sees a bandaid on (his)
finger (AIDS). In the waiting room,
the assistant puts her purse from the
counter down to her feet (Steal).
In the interview, the manager asks
half-hearted questions, never really
listening to (his) answers (I'm not
hiring a goddamn black man).
Outside, the mother and her daughter
laugh and talk to one another. The
woman is singing in her car. The white
woman is going shopping. The secretary
is going to lunch. The lady is laughing
in a meeting. The assistant is reading a
funny email. The manager preps for the
next interviewer. The black man takes
the elevator down and opens the
door to the outside.
...
Opening Night
Driving at 90 mph
In the summer heat
With the window's down
And Joplin screaming-
In the distance
I see the jagged mountains
Touching the sky like a knife
And the blue sky
Is like a blue
I have never seen before;
It's new
It's passionate
And extremely powerful.
In the corner of the sky
The moon is making its appearance
Like opening night
To one of Shakespeare's plays
And I can't help
But smile.
...
Ode to Mingus
Charles Mingus is in my soul
And hes plucking the bass strings
Like its his last day on the earth
And he wants to play
Until his fingers bleed
His back aches
And his throat hurts from wailing-
But lost love never stopped him
And the more he lost it
The louder he sings
And the harder he plucks
And he jams long into the night
So those who hear him
Will remember
And never forget
Dig it, baby. Dig it.
...
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