He’s Houdini

      but instead of wriggling his body out of straightjackets and locked coffins he worms his way into them, burying his doubts like he does his dick in that priest hole he dug into his mattress. “I haven’t been fucked in forever.” he laments to me, when his tonsils are wet and his…

Murder In The Streets, Killer Between The Sheets

    It’s crossed words and duels at sunrise again and I don’t know how to love him I need more than he wants and I can’t seem to muzzle those echoes in my bones Sense follows nonsense My gristle caught in the teeth of a madness that not even his flesh can release.  …

His Head Wailing Unsprung.

  And he’s sitting there land-locked, anchored to the slope of the hill at the edge of Fort Mason Park his head in large brown hands rocking a strong torso back and forth, back and forth wailing in front of an invisible wall. He’s been there so long his skin is grass-stained. He looks like…

Hippo Crits

    They dip their snouts in the wallow of their own dung and mud, and delight in flagrant fragrances of bias’ floral splendor. Resurfacing, they take in your sweet bouquet, flare their dirt-caked nostrils with disdain and despair as they burrow deeper into their mudhole to release more sharts into a tidal flux of…

And We All Laughed One Last Time

      They were sweet. Three tourists from China tenterhooked, waiting to cross the street at an interminable red light at Marina Green near Fort Mason Park with not a car in sight. I look right and left, then stroll on in defiance of that “Don’t walk” sign. They follow alongside me, all dawn-eyed…

Rilke Was Right

  It’s the last day – the sky’s all cracked glass and hooded blight, the crows look like flying monks cawing Benedictine prayers at a shrouded sun. Nothing is right anymore. The ignition of your eyes has turned a lighter shade of pale, the air is ash and I’m covered in wreckage; every bit of…

Just Another Burning Bush

    When the man was a boy, he walked through thicketed woods. Loblolly pines, cypress, beech, and magnolia trees lined the walking path which lay like the centre aisle in a grand cathedral. The trees were pews to sit, stand or kneel on. It was a holy place then, a place for contemplation, a…

Requiem For A Dream

      I will keep I will keep You With me I can wait I can bait Your fisher king His coffee grounds are used His Carpenter’s cup is empty His a thirst that always grows His a covenant to go His a shadow’s lost hello His destination a bleak flatline horizon Crucify the…

Keeping my fora porous

Transparencies in their peignoirs become more opaque, candor will forge the brighter shield. We pretend to strip our blacklights strobing and pulsing their static – Was this a fuckless kiss? Or a kissless fuck?

Gone-Gone with The Go-Gos

  “Spiral-bound for easy removal” is what Michael Roger Press, Inc. assures me on the very first page of my notebook, and he should know, he’s been manufacturing them since 1995. I started writing on blank recycled paper; maybe this is an omen, my white owl flying high. All my scrawl is illegible now, but…

Between Independence and Captivity

The chrysalis cracks its promise I emerge winged, the lambent fire of lucidity crackling This is the dawn anew I regret the loss of my 1000 legs though the air provides a means I miss feeling the earth squirm beneath my belly, miss the grind and trail, how will I ever remember the scrimmage of…

Sorry. 

    Five letters. Two vowels. So jam-packed with meanings and feelings and nuances and none of them will ever do what I feel for what I’ve said or done justice… not for me not for you I wish sorry was a place and not a word. A place where we could smile, dance and…

A Simple Misunderstanding 

Kafka found himself on the shore, south of the border and west of the sun. A place visited by no one. It was a simple misunderstanding. Somewhere along the way, he took a wrong turn. Maybe he went left, instead of right; or up instead of down. He meant to take a plane trip to…

Ham On Wry

O Sophia, Daughter of Wisdom Speak to us in your dulcet tones, you who have fed man so long Under the canopy of your mists, we breathe information in exalted inhalation, yet there’s never enough thirst for this Ideas dangle their fruit as we lay dreaming at the root of every tree Those visions gauzy,…