the ivory tower

the ivory tower looms behind me on the horizon,
say the horizon line holds that tower of plated ivory;
with a knowledge of what was left behind,
and what was taken away from me.

that tower, that bony fortress of unrealistic dreams,
the ivory tower held my fairy tale dreams;
dreams which had no bearing on the real,
for nothing is quite what it seems.

the black tower on the city’s horizon is unforgettable,
my memories of that tower are now unforgettable;
i have a box of photos which carve my mind out,
manipulating me to the aerial.

those menacing money-rich days seem so far away now,
those black and menacing rich days seem so far away;
all that money that was meant to show
our vows – our dry, emotional essay.

the ivory tower still looms behind me on the horizon,
the horizon line lingers like that dress of ivory;
with a knowledge of what i've left behind,
and what i have removed from me.

midnight drive

soaring down into town,
not wondering, just going;

wheels pummeling on tarmac --
for no great a cause as this.

bottle green and yellow sour
shining and blurring souls,

symbols, signs -- indications
as the white lights advance.

nocturnal passage plans to take me
far away from the known,

and angels crave more attention
than the darkness out the door.

curve of concrete, blast of shine --
acid quickens to a sure split.

developing a dark progression,
it watches as the journey unravels

on my midnight drive.

reclining

reclining on the ground,
my toes braided into the
surrounding red.

i take a glance upward
into your lens, intoxicated in
the moment of simplicity.

palming the fur as i imagine
harmony, nectar
on my mythical horizon.

singing in the street

we went for
singing in

the street.

a rising up of
spontaneity
and the

innocence of the evening

caused by a pursuit
of poetry.

two laps of
16th and mission,

did nothing for
our quest,
and everything for,

togetherness.

all the while,
the winds calmed
to an amplified

sway,

as we continued our
browsing and arousing

on valencian streets,
past clothing, fittings
and musical

outpour.

you improvised lines
and, i, wondered at

the night.

until the bookstore,
where,

sitting on the red floor,

we stared caffeine dazzled
and love

dazed.

sitting in a perfect
frame

between
keats, wordsworth and

yeats.

we sang the
innocence

and daunting

beauty,

of it all.

ariel strums

vocalist
in the wilderness
of the acoustic
mic

the simple
disappointment
first cuts me
quick.

ariel strums through neon

flames on bead with corduroy shirt

mario brings on highway speed

glass crash smash over wine

moth swoops, turns and touches.

i turn to
a place where
i can no stronger
see

i plan
my attack
on the stage
bound and

fingering froth.

yuppies

The top dogs --
With their pot of gold --
have all the luck,
Without even knowing it

light over tar

light
over tar.

reflecting shadows

in the noon air.

flight
shines red.

orange, and white;

whilst
the insects

bounce back

in the breeze
to the trees.

bilingue

a horn sounds in the mission
waking the morning up,

as
the men go to sit in the streets
waiting,

on césar chavez,
on Harrison,
by the Salvo.

as
the women go to look after kids
that aren’t theirs.

their parents wanting to save,
and like the idea
d’être

Bilingue.

Bilingual, like the
neighbourhood itself

mixing and diversifying

the real mission
from
the fake mission.

the artists and the poets
think it is oh so hip

d’être
une partie
de la communauté.

all the while--



a horn sounds in hayes valley
waking the afternoon up.

in hayes valley,
in the marina,
in SOMA,

as
ladies and gents
with
more money than sense

ignore the reality,
of any given situation.

in favour
of good fun,
designer clothing,
spending each meal.

they favour,
a Cosmo over a Tequila;
they favour,
Armani over the Salvo;
they favour,
Chevys over Taquería Cancun.

they walk in their heels

as
the people in the streets are stepped over,
by these, their wealthier neighbours

but deep down they know
it’s their city too.

they know
they are
Bilingual.


a horn sounds in the mission,
waking the evening up.

as
the kids
in bright clothes

leave their
fancy loft apartments
head off to the bars
to defina

as
the families sit down
to eat,

grandmother
with grandchild,

their flauntas,
their papusas.


i know i don’t even
begin
to understand

the complexity

of this situation.

i know that this
may
be the most

naïve thing

you’ve ever heard.

i know that i’m
an
outsider

looking in
at the thousands
of residents
of this insane city.

in this city
in this country.

i know that i’m
a
foreigner

a green card holder
through
luck,
and a failed marriage.

but still

i feel as though

i bilingue

(though maybe that’s just
a fallacy).

but --
anyway --

whether its right or its wrong

i can spend a hour
of my time

marking

a sight/site

or two.

used books

i used to love used.

digging around
in the bookshelves of
thrift stores, goodwill;
wandering around
Valencia St.

i used to need used.

the history of a book,
that familiar smell
that lingers on the fingers,
a faint flavourful
mustiness.

i used to want used.

now, that simple pleasure
exploited and removed
by a capitalistic tendency
to make good,
and suddenly.

i’m used to feeling used.

suspended

suspended,
in space,
between the
iridescent glow
and the chilling
fog.

suspended,
in time,
the clocks
stuck in the
moment
whilst I tour.

suspended,
in place,
feeling the taut,
brittle,
tightness,
of the solitude.

suspended,
in phase,
looking over
the edge into
the future
as the past

suspends belief,
and the wind
reaches over
for the cold,
crisp,
water below.

sf haiku

Old hippie, balding,
Redoes ponytail string in
Record store window.

you have a lot

you have a lot
more
of my soul
than
either one of us
ever
intended you to have.

Critical Mass

Born in the city -- but not particular
(sounds familiar)

Legs that ache whilst pushing past hills.
Tumulous crowd of rainbow colours.
Apparently to be critical

but seems

Unaware of the politics
riding oblivious
To norms and convention trying to create

A difference.

Masses of event (but masses of thought?)

… Critical

Exhilaration reins in atmosphere

Pushing down haight street cheering,
Shouting out against the b(l)eeps.