heroisch part ii

“Any ache or pain or sadness or guilty feeling
was completely flushed out”

in the West,

he watched the sun hit upon
Eucalyptus trees. he stared
into the eyes of others, charting

their beauty and their weaknesses.
like so many before him, he marveled
in the hope of this city, and

managed to gather his abilities to
heal and protect. his selfless self-sacrifice.
he met another wandering figure,

she was as lonely and trapped as he was
over-virtuous, they followed each
others golden paths for a short time.

but the beat hit and hit again,
as the voices and footsteps sounded.
imagining painful rejection

he gathered the strength
from an internal power, praying to
Jung, Nietsche & his personal deity.

the pride was infecting,
but the realities debilitating,
as the past continued to move

within his veins, and the present
longed for a stability but only came
in bites and chunks like a fairground ride.

he fought with the actual,
pushing and persevering though the
city seemed a bitch, and a whore.

***

so he decided to return.

back to the coldness, as his feet
seized and ran – still chasing to find
what he has been looking for.

back to the coldness, like the
Prodigal wandering back, the memories
more wrong than first imagined.

back to the coldness, where the
snow dances in the light at dawn
whilst he stands alone.

he knew, deep down, that he had to
protect and defend himself. he knew that he
needed to push past the negativity

and try once more.

for home is where the mind and
heart are, and his home was no longer
the place he originated from, but here.

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.

the familiar

the familiar made unfamiliar
through distance
through
time,
creeping back in to

those fields that flow
to the
valley,
to the
brook.

those trees that know
my past,
those which
i walked
beside

for eighteen long years.
i always
imagined
beyond
the grey skies;

beyond
the green
that seemed
so dull,
always

reaching for the unfamiliar.

yuppies

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

without

my fingers tap

a rhythm,
a melody,

without any place to go.

i feel a deep loss

to be,
away,

from my love.

from

my passion,
my strength,

they linger,

without.

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.

je t'aime

je t'aime,
je t'aime,
oh ouais! je t'aime.

mon amour,
mon ami,
mon destin.

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.

des beaux arts

Le monde entier
regarde des beaux arts
comme une tristesse

my imagination wanders

a burning
a scorching
a singeing

deep into the soul.

(the imagination
wanders)

a freezing
a restricting
a controlling

the acid kiss
of jealousy

goes deep,
deep,
into

the pensive void.

the coldness
pushes its way through,

right to the heart of

the addiction.

rocky place haiku

Stuck between a rock:
Knowing what I feel, not
feeling what I know.

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.

Valentine's Day Poem

In August
I fell so Deeply
Richly
Soulfully
For you.

My
Unspoken feeling
Flooded
My Inner being,
To the point

Where the spark
Engulfed the main
Almost
Blazing
Too bright

And a strength
previously
Unimaginable
Lovingly
portraying

A lunatic
Lost in your
Purity
your Luminous
Inner beauty

To show a Completeness
(that can never happen),
a Construction
Moving,
Progressing.

You know that a thousand
miniature moments
beats a single
gesture

(we are much more than amateur)

Although the Fragileness
Founded with
Potency
Of mind And body
Is pounding.


Still.

so deep

That look you have,
That look that stares deep
Into the soul

I can’t help but wonder
What you are thinking
When you stare so deep

Trying to make contact
With something, or nothing.
Anything that might suit.

she had never felt

She had never felt
So lost and so found
In the same sitting

Reality seems far away
When is seen and what
Is heard are

So diverse

Lost, in an encounter
With herself although
She doesn’t know it

Yet.

Her wanderlust comes to settle
Away from the ice
And the falling bricks

Found, so alive and so a mess


Wondering

sf haiku

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

bottled up

A drip.
Of hope that runs back and forth,

Touching
sides

-- Sticking --

In the places where it might count.

It is cold,
Brittle and smooth like a

Sigh.

The screw,
Tightly fitted, not allowing air

To penetrate

That bitter
Taste, whilst the smell is sweet.

Resembling

-- blue --
Hope.

them

those eyes
travel
across souls
meet
lost terrain
expect
vivid futures.

She's an angel

“Angel,” she pleaded
Across the dense whim
Of the machine

As grit fell on the black
the lightning hit hard
Across the broken whole.

“Angel,” she sobbed
as I crossed to save her
But when I went --

Working back on myself,
Like an unrelenting madness --
Oh she was long gone.

heroisch

he came from the Second City,
its broad shoulders nudging him
forward onto the longest journey

they said that he were wicked,
but never listening to them (after a while).
just exploiting the offerings of a

rather cold place. The cold cut him,
with toes he couldn’t feel anymore
he left, but burdens go wherever

the wanderer takes them.
tied onto the back from suburbia
wondering what would become of,

eventually he took to rebuilding himself,
from the top down, learning to grow whilst
terrible burdens remain upon him

the community without the Kaas,
like the city, (all about reinvention),
cold cutting the feet, toes not felt any more.

he had a warmth, a dream in his heart
and a song in his ear,
he knew realities too advanced

for his years. his next turn,
a reverse migration. mapping the railroad
on the wanderings south.

he went for independence, and for a love
that was supposedly selfless
but when that developed into obscurity

he continued to dream,
his nomadic journey brought him
to the idea of the west.

the truest fresh start available
in the young, innovative state,
where flesh meets organization.

detachment

detachment

is
a word
that we know a
sufficiency
about

(sometimes)
creating an
emotional
detachment

a distance

you need to
develop
distance

in order to
---and to
eventually
sustain this--

survive each day at a time.

you need to
give people the
freedom to be
themselves

(needing to
give yourself
this freedom
as well) in order

to become well

but this here
word –
-should not
create the
other subconscious:

emotional unavailability.
this must be unworked
from within,
but without losing
sight of

detachment.

him and her

him: i have never felt such

anger,

and been so
scared--

both at the exact same time

how could you?


her: if i knew that, wouldn’t i be telling you?

Yes,
well,

i sort of had to.

Coping

isn’t something that I had been

good at

(for a while now),
and with everything,

it pushed me too far.
Far too far.


her: it is time to end the emotional distance.

Love

is all she needs,

love
and support.

Comfort.


him: do you think this has something to do
with

gender?

(why she took them?)

perhaps we can look towards the sky,
at the birds.

Birds provide solace, and a contemplatary silence.


her: doesn’t seem that much of a good idea to me.

Look --

look at me,
no,

look

at

me.

i am not going to do that again.

i wouldn’t do that again,

i promise.
(but I still don’t know how and why)

you have a lot

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

recession

Cranes loom over the buildings of Londontown
The grey water reflects the prosperous Southbank
As the morning moves a circuit of cold, dark, mugginess.

The industrious denizens pace foot forward, foot forward,
They move determined towards their destination
Whilst a creeping insecurity lingers within them all.

On the 9th hour, Gordon speaks to the nation
His plan connects global speakers, calms through nationalising,
Except the red, red sun is already rising in the East.