The distance between us changes more rapidly now. I wasn't prepared for that. They were more alert, brighter, quicker, Yesterday. Not really yesterday— I'm a poet, I take liberties. They stumble now; Unable to process at the speed at which I've always demanded. They tire easily now. (Or is it I am more aware of their tiring?) Regardless, I don't want to write this poem I don't like where it’s going. I don't like how they haven't visited in over a decade. I don't like how my "likes" have become the concern of this poem. There's no neat and tidy ending here. Feelings give way... The pen stumbles... Punctuation fails. An interlude is created and kept in. A pothole is treated. The road is still clunky. Is the road the poem, my life, or the other in the "us" I write about? This messiness distracts me. I dislike this messiness the most. Let's go roller skating again. Let's go on a hike. Let's eat eggrolls downtown Walking while looking at art While I imagine no other way to do either.
Just Another Gentrification Rant
I have lived in my Tenderloin Apartment for over 20 years. I have seen the neighborhood get "better"; get "worse"; "stay the same". The neighborhood is always "getting" something. I walk in zig zag lines. I inhale toileted concrete. I breathe the desolation. Where are the Starbucks? The Disneys? The Chases? I am not capable of throwing enough “warning” ice cubes. I can only call-in one incident at a time. I can never put up enough stickers. FUTILE. I welcome the gentrification. Let me repeat that, I welcome the gentrification. I open my arms wide and breathe in the anti-bacterialized oxygen oozing from salons I will Never be able to afford. I salute the Google busses traipsing through my 'hood on their way to Cyber-Work. I enjoy the latest fashions parading by, zig zagging; slip-sliding down Taylor Street. Because Hipsters are easier to predict than Crackheads. Let me repeat that, Because Hipsters are easier to predict than Crackheads. Because Chanel-Girls, like Ghetto-Whores pay me the same never-mind. Because sleek matte-encrusted zoom-racers wear out the pavement just like suburban pill- Popping porno-children looking for a little Zam. Because I live here, and am not just “passing through”. And perhaps, because I live in a rent-controlled dwelling And am removed from the housing crisis— But didn't Jimmy just sell his club on Turk and Taylor for enough cash to never have to worry About where his next drink comes from? And didn't Huckleberry Bikes just expand? And, yes 50 Mason's no more and sure, Viracocha's gone, but still... I welcome the gentrification. Let me repeat that, I welcome the gentrification. I wouldn't mind a Super Cuts on Taylor and Eddy. I wouldn’t mind slyly sliding by and observing the receptionist deal with dopers right outside Lying down as if the black pavement is Waikiki beach and they are surfers on break. I wouldn’t mind having a Noah's on Jones and Ellis only to have shit-flavored bagel wafts Emanating forth instead of the clichéd savory garlic-money flavor. Because I have dealt with this crap long enough. The cops? God bless them, they’ve tried. The Hipsters? Taxi drivers? Valets? Delivery People? Hotel Workers? Etc.? Etc.? Etc.!?— They’ve tried too. I've watched. Yeah, it would be nice to watch some gentrification sprout up in the 'Loin. Be nice to see what it would unearth.
And I Just Sold All Mine
Written nearly ten years ago, strangely enough this poem surfaced within my psyche. What did I sell? Does this autobiographically-based poem provide any clues? ...Looking forward to your thoughts...
And I Just Sold All Mine
North North South North South North North Look You are in an empty house. Your parents are playing poker, your sister is at a friend's studying. Look You are in an empty house. Your parents are playing poker, your sister is at a friend's studying. East Look You are in a cornfield & yet your thoughts wander, your energies shift and time passes, passes, passes. Turmoil at the Levines, Tetris in the park. Motorcycle Madness Blunt-Stuffed rhythms with Dr. Don. DCM82, Green-Schooled Rush. Mechanical, electrical, Eroll & Yars' Revenge. Jamie Wagg & Lazer trails. Dirty Mushroom wanderings. Night tent-McKinley. Billy Joel's Greatest stolen from Leah’s horizontal root beer metal ball riser. Linux and the pseudo-Tron. Reebok, Gap, Ralph Lauren- Sticky cartridge sweaters. The sound of bricks, which can't be replicated. Food Fight's smooth diatrope of spawned ediponry (*). Commando and the octagonal joy, replete with grenades. And I just sold all mine. West. (*) From the author (me) we learn that: "ediponry" means "edible weaponry".
I Can Shout Louder Than You
What should I do when there’s a man shouting on the street? SHOUTING. A man is shouting, I’m pouting, he’s SHouting on the street. Why won’t my friend return my call? I did her a favor, a favor that’s all. A favor I did I wish to collect. A favor a favor a FAVOR— RESPECT! outside, the cool air bristles past the walkers, wherE the sidewalk dirties and tourists comparE their lovely homes to our foggy knoLL, outside in the rushing, the workers troLL. The “theys” of this world tell us, “UNITE”, The “theys” often speak of unspeakable nights, The “theys” appear frequently vested in plight, So I will retire— retire alright? I’ll be home in my garden, outside on the lawn, At the ocean, the mountains, the glades filled with fawn. I’ll draw and I’ll sing and I’ll break my own noose, I’ll laugh and cavort with Doctors named Suess. I’ll hop through the streets with an unrefined glee, Why, I’ll make up silly rhymes— that’s what I’ll be. I’ll fracture, distort and skew all the lines, I’ll make my own reason, invent all the time, Tell lies that are truth when others do glare And shout, SHout, SHOUT more than others will dare!
Whatever
Here's one I wrote back in 2010 during my Club M-One Six Years. Enjoy!
Whatever
Go with that flow with that, keep it slow. You know its true for the red white and blue. Throw in some easy ones, keep it real cheesy fun. It's all that I still want to do. 'Tever to the wha wha yo yo hay. Couldn't care less what others say. 'Tever to the wha' wha' yo yo who. Couldn't care less what others do. Think I'm being selfish? Take a look at you. Couldn't care less how others look. Go ahead and read your fancy book. Go ahead and cry to the man in the moon. Go ahead, think about rhymes with soon. Wouldn't really matter, shouldn't really say. Couldn't care less what others say. Couldn't care less what others do. Think I'm being selfish? Take a look at you. Couldn't care less what others mean. Like MJ said; "The mirror is clean". Nastiness, friendliness, all obscene. Your judging yourself by others tunes, Go ahead, stare up at the moon. Couldn't care less when chickies swoon, Cause I couldn’t care less what others do. Shiny ass quarter, red, white and blue. Dirty copper market street keeps it true. To get to the bay take the 22. Go ahead and eat some pho guru. Go ahead, sign ya name in blue. Gonna get that platinum for you true. Gonna ride around in the Benz with you, On the bridge to the 1 when the tide is low. If you don’t understand, it's like Clyde's solo. Some of the words you comprehend, Others go ahead, text me again. Couldn't care less if you’re my friend, I don't understand what others say. Pray with that type, play holiday, Couldn't care less what others say. 'Tever to the wha' wha' yo yo hay. Couldn't care less what others do. Think I'm being selfish? Take a look at you. When the atrocities are out of my control, I could load myself up another bowl. I could drop my head in a world of books. Take the girlies at their Faced-out looks. I could comprehend something above. Could walk in the Mission, look for love. Could talk about things I do not know. But 'tever to the wha' wha' yo yo yo. 'Tever to the wha' wha' here we go! 'Tever to the SF, Oakland true. 'Tever to the cross that bay its Lew. 'Tever to Marin— Gold & Blue. 'Tever to the Sausalito too. 'Tever to the 38, avenues. 'Tever to the me, tever to the you. Couldn't care less what others do. 'Tever to the nine-four-one-oh-two. This poem's for me, but also for you. 'Tever to the he, 'Tever to the she, This piece can go on indefinitely. Instead a fade out entirely. 'Tever to the wha' wha' yo yo hay. Couldn't care less what others say. 'Tever to the wha' wha' yo yo who. Couldn't care less what others do.
Monuments of Memories
Falling through holes decades past the scene Frisbee lawns given way way past the greens. Trivial lines. Less trivial times. The monuments of memories gave way the obscene. I laughed aside a younger man's prose That play-sport appeared— what he already knows I laughed aside a younger man's wit That play-sport appearing known that's it
Laughing Lady
This lady's laugh is irritating me. I got little sleep yesterday. I drove over 9 hours yesterday. I fly home today. These statements are connected. Many things are. Her partner commented, "Your laugh was quite loud even when you were thinner." It was at this moment I suspected two things: 1) They've been together awhile. 2) They are just as in-love now as when they initially fell in love. Thoughts shift... Her laughing began to irritate me less. Memories, feelings flood into me... A love fills me... My heart pumps... My beats change... My pulse quickens… Visions of Angela & I still very much giddy and in love decades from now began to warm me.
Yucca Prose
I was driving across the country– Summer '99… I wrote “Yucca Prose” Mid-August while in Moab Utah, at the Lazy Lizard Hostel.
A few days ago I was reading an old journal and this piece jumped out at me. Are the obvious-to-me biographical references swaying my assessment of this poem? Or is it actually worthy of merit? As always, I look forward to your comments – LB 11:50 PM 11/27/2023 SF., CA. 94109
Yucca Prose
Three times the fun Once till you're done Recreation of the soul! A slave, voodoo cutesies, lemonade Guess on, long neck crew The shell's in the sea Are the nights in your stars. Layered sentiments, merriments Perverse, yucca prose Nor to be simply seen A something of the rose
Sir
I love it when they call me sir. Feels like I am gettin' Just what I deserve. Finally forgettin' That I was absurd, That I never heard, Other peoples' words. And only thinkin' of my self, My monetary wealth, Not caring for your tone, Wishing I was alone, I vanished. Gone was the happy-go-lucky Frisco Hippy. Replaced with a tripped-out 5150. No more friends stoppin’ by my Hovel. Eating meals at Glide like the homeless in their grovel. I awoke. No consoles set up to comfort me at my spot. Foodborne illness through rusted up Macy's pots. Lovin' life was nothin' hot that I did yet got. I love it when they love it... Forget about the shove it. ‘Forgot about the things that I do not know. Chauffeured in the limo to my brand new show. Put on my tux– E– Do. Hop in the back with the disco girls. Gonna make it hot, gonna jump in the whirl- Gonna jump in the pool with my tux. You know got another one, I got mega bucks. Easier to vanish in my own fantasy, Than tryin' to be the best me I can be. Lately livin' large has been good for me. Goin' through my life acting less selfishly. I love it when they call me sir. Feels like I am gettin' Just what I deserve. Finally forgettin' That I was absurd, That I never heard, Other peoples' words. That I never saw The colors in the sky. That I never heard The birdies chirpin’ by. But now I'm carin' 'bout my peers. ‘Listening to their fears. ‘Concerned about their woes, Mindful of the crows. Not trying to be alone, Friends stoppin' by my home. It feels good.
Dominic Eats
When Dominic gets hungry Dominic eats. He does not cook, nor have to. He rings a bell. Sir? Will the truffled egg white quiche be in order, or does Dominic prefer deviled ham on sourdough? Dominic usually waves his hand in disgust at those who serve him. Uh, sir, egg? Ham? Uh, something else sir? Sir? Dominic has no time to concern himself with answering. Very well sir, they always teeter, I have brought you both. I— I— I had the chef make the lobster Thermidor and— and a fresh pot of consommé, sir. Umm, uh… your sushi’s ready, or, uh… or— your beef Wellington, that is, sir… Sir? Dominic looks up from his latest doodle (to call them paintings would be blasphemy) forks a single edamame, then a spoonful of hot beef broth followed by one small pinky-sized pincer from the Thermidor, reclines, spills his food, reaches up, fingers plastic stars, clicking balls and a diamond mirror.
The Red Sky
Red sky darkens Stage lights soften Chord Boys quicken Hammerhead sharks frolic in the surf. Guppies clean their gills In & out of big jaws zig zagging between pointy teeth. A pirate eats a pretzel. A mermaid kisses her child. The red sky maroons into a silver night
The Shape of You
I hunger for the shape of you... A ride booklet at the 'park Some rosin on the bow A few quarters at the arcade Like curves on the 1 You’re the one for me Foggy ocean breezes Sea lions seeing more than can be seen I hunger for the shape of you... Lights in a city A doe in a field Flowers on the horizon Feelings that are real Let’s sail up a mountain Hike through seas Cruise crowded boulevards It’s easy to believe It’s easy to pretend Pick some berries while we sleep Book a hammock on a bike Umbrella in a jeep Mangoes in a dessert Custard from the sky Unpacked before we arrive It’s the shape of you that I crave It's the reason that I write.
Circles of Happiness
Spreading circles of happiness Concentric circles of love Copernican orbits, celestial in nature (Scientific specificity be damned) Prismatic spectrums of non sequitorial orbits Words; loosely organized, placed in drawers of paper lest they gather dust Forgotten; they morph towards memories.
George
For such a short piece of writing, "George" really packs a wallop! This micro-fiction sure does demand much upon the reader; however I believe the payoff is worthy. Take it slow and feel free to read it twice if needed. I look forward to your comments,
Lewis
George
George was technically living. He did have a beat-box and the most advanced plastic pulse ever assembled. GR-78 was a sub-orbital weather fixing station and George's current assignment. Why George was stuck on a Sub-Orb "Wet Fox" was beyond his plasticity; perhaps if he had bio valves, bio neurons, and skin, instead of a mold, he might have had a choice. But George did choose to keep fluid on Altarian politics and instinctively knew that all four of the big boys were no longer capable of activating hydro-fall, without synth help. Indeed, countless synths were being forcefully reassigned for work too dangerous for bios and if a synth or two had to be "reprogrammed" daily, well, that's what they’re for, right? As he was stationed at this wet fox, at least his exo-mold was never in any real danger, unlike the seeding-synths ordered to spark hydro burst in the Altarian atmosphere.
George should have been pleased, yet he wasn’t. He was finished waiting— it would be months before the commandant of the '78, a known "Organics Survivalist", would even glance at his transfer request and besides, today there would be major demonstrations all over Altari. So George stole some replication discs, handed them to the most corrupt fueler-captain on duty, hid onboard, and signaled ahead to the Student Synth Alliance. Upon landing, the ship was seized by crazed-students mistaking the fueler for a hydro-carrier. Riots had already begun. Communal-Organic-Patrol Synths had been zazing both, students, and synths alike. George spotted the alliance and bolted, un-zazed, to them.
The kids in the alliance were ragged, but they seemed determined as they slashed through the volatile masses (to get to Grand Hydro Station Plaza, George hoped) and he kept pace with them easily. After trudging a mile or so, breaking through barracks, avoiding deceptor-synths and losing a few members, the frazzled pack eventually made it to the plaza. On the podium, behind a triple-plated golden-ion fountain of pure hydrogenated air, one of "the Seven" was placating a cheering crowd. Clad in a grey-gold suit, medallions all over his jacket, and ribbons too-many-to-count, this seven was assuring those gathered that all bios need not worry; that synths "would be assigned where needed" and that "hydro fall was imminent".
Protected by a cadre comprised of both elite military synths and bio commanders, the colonel was explaining that "Biologicals own Altari", and everything in it, including synths, and that just because "the Supremes ruled that a beat-box and a plastic pulse made one 'alive', the seven must set a superior standard." He continued in such a fashion for some time…
No one noticed, amidst thunderous applause, a certain truant-synth making his way to the front of the crowd. However, most-everyone in attendance did see when, after making it through the "Guardians of the Seven" and in one fluid gesture, how the synth in question effortlessly scalpeled out the Colonel's heart, removed his own beat-box, sliced-out the Colonel's brain, disconnected his own plastic pulse, while switching the Colonel's organics for his own synth-parts. With years of mandatory wet fox emergency drills behind him George's elegance in performing this complicated operation was most valued by the unshocked orator behind the podium who was rapidly losing bio-integrity.
Yes, it was George's amazing non-human speed that enabled an oblivious Colonel, moments before collapse, to continue his oration, trailing off with, "We must insist that all living beings be measured by the content of their character, that ONLY those in possession of actual hearts, real brains be allowed free will, that those with the manufactured parts, the so-called beat boxes, plastic pulses, that they serve their rightful masters..."
The Meeting (In two Parts)
The Meeting (Part 1)
You will text me when you’re over that dilapidated bridge near the old hospital and then you will text me again at the end of the line, when you get off, because sometimes it takes a while to get off, so when you get off, text me. In your text say, “I’m at the drug store,” then be at the drug store, not at the arcade, like all of you always are, not at the beach with your pants rolled up and your mouth wrapped around a beer like they frequently do, no, if you text me that you will be at the drug store, which is what you will do, then be at the drug store, be there waiting for me and I will be outside, by the green and black awning, that’s where you should be, the drug store can be quite big, so you will wait in front of the big green and black awning and I will show up seven minutes or sooner after I receive your text and you will know when I receive your text because I will text you back, I will text you back, “ I have received your text I will see you soon”, and when, I text “soon”, whenever I text, “soon”, it would pay you great mind to realize that in seven or fewer minutes whatever it is that the “soon” modified will come about, naturally, great acts of nature or God’s will aside.
The Meeting (Part 2)
Now before leaving pack food and plenty of water as the trip is quite long and conditions are never dependable and the bus driver, bus drivers being what they are, probably will only stop in gas stations, and won’t allow passengers to leave their seats, except to use the on-board bathroom, so you won’t procure sustenance en route and if you do go to the bathroom, I had one ugly character several years back who refused to, if you do use the bathroom you will lock the door and bring your possessions with you, which of course means that you will travel with a minimum of provisions, you will travel with only food, water, a change of clothing, if you read, a book, your phone, maybe a hat and a light jacket, and make certain your phone is charged, only a fool would bring more than that. Sometimes they bring several bags with them and wonder if I missed them at the drug store, I did not, and I will not miss you should you show up with a department store’s collection of matching bags and briefcases and suitcases and luggage and other conspicuous packing cases, and as far as you knowing what I look like, don’t you pay any mind to that, you wear the pin I mailed you on your left side of a white button-down collar and I will find you, white button-down collar, and you won’t be eating any nachos or sushi or tasty soup on the bus, no, if your shirt is stained I will walk right by, if you are twitching because, say, you are hungry, because maybe you forgot to bring a snack, water, or you are nervous and are constantly pacing, shuffling your feet, I won’t stop, if you look like a crazy traveler with enough bags for a small family I won’t even come near, but I am repeating myself, so text me when you get off and I will see you soon after that.
You
Every shop I pass Every window I gaze Reminds me of you. Every car that passes Every truck that squeals Reveals you in my thoughts. Every leaf yet to Bud Every mother yet to Bloom Every worker on a Call You You You
Swimming Tribulations
One man gathers what another man spills. Fill it, Kill it, Hit that million Dollar Thrill-it. Kiss it. Dive in it. Spit it, pristine prude prune diver divot. Divine trancer cuts his hippie pantses, Sails on & pails that sentient tail. Past Reality... Faster... Furthur & Incomprehensible, Silly Bull. Will me Krill! Swimmer Thrills in the pill. She slaps it on him, Yet don't want it– Shit! "A few hits Surround my Air Sea Battle & I'm no longer fooling around" & around... Silent but deadly. Electronic Sweatsly. Kingsly. Adolph Huxley. Billy C of Cosby. & Wrong way Leibentowsky I'm sober now, I'm sorry. So I'll walk me out, I'll walk me... Past the double 'mills Up North Beach hills, Serenely through the 'rents' nihls, & complacently with my older ills.
Removing Nails
Your coworkers were catcalling me. But you? You were removing nails from your mud-covered boots. I was wearing that leather skirt you stole for me. My hair was slicked back. I was pretending to be annoyed by the remarks; “Take off your top!” “I got the perfect tool for that job!” But the only creepy thing was that you Were removing nails from your mud-covered boots And not joining in on the fun.
Rhythm of the words
Rhythm of the words, sound of the beat. Superficial fine, spicy, Sultry, Sweet. Rhythm of the words, tone of the piece. Shallow or Pedantic, different kind of beat. Rhythm of the words, feel of the sound. Eardrums, crack- opening, new connections found. Rhythm of the words, flow of the page. Hypnotized by ink, welcome to my stage!
The Sounds of Adulthood
It is the sound of the wind fanciful The falling leaves of autumn that soothes my soul. The cumulous fluffy cotton wisping by, cancelling ceaseless clamor. It is the blueness of a New England sky erasing invasive sounds My own voice resonating in public structures not able to drown out a city filled with children, train horns, industry, metallic bangs, and other signs of civility. The sounds of adulthood that clang, rebound, bounce, ricochet aimlessly are those self-same sounds of childhood which invigorated and created and made possible so many, if not all, of my fondest experiences.