Prose Scrap

“Tell me the saddest thing that you know.” She said.

“That our species has made the display of exuberance, I mean to tiptoe through the tulips, literally to run skipping down the street shaking your body like crazy, that our society has made this to be socially unacaptable. That you will be mocked as the lunatic and likely locked up behind serious bars for doing this. For running down the street.”

“People run down the street all the time. It’s called jogging.”

“Yeah, and the next time you see a jogger, check out the look on her face. Utter moroseness. You ever seen a jogger smile?”

“I don’t remember.”

“They don’t. Not because running’s not fun.”

“It isn’t.”

“No, running is fun. Ask any kid, they know. No, joggers don’t smile, because it’s faux pas in our society. It’s too exuberant.”

Prose Scrap

‘The thing about people from Las Vegas,’ he said ‘is that living in Las Vegas is like living above a club. People come there and have a lot of fun and shit all over everything and then leave, meanwhile you have to put up with their yelling and screaming all night and then you wake up in the morning with a mess in your front yard.’


One of the wonders of the twentieth century is on display at the bar in the Yardhouse downtown.

The bartender catches my eyes and I ask “How much for a half-yard of the Paulaner Pils?”

“All of the beers are eleven dollars by the half-yard, sir.”

“All of the beers?”

“Yes sir.”

So let me get this straight. A pint and a half of beer brewed and barreled in Munich, shipped via truck to Rotterdam, shipped via ship to Baltimore or maybe clear through the Panama canal to Long Beach, then brought by truck to some DC, then by another truck to this Yardhouse brewery, costs the same as a pint and a half of Stone Pale ale, brewed right up the street?

How can this be? How can the cost of shipping and handling have fallen so low that all of this movement and preservation of the beer can be accomplished at such a cheap price that a bar can buy it from the distributor at a price close enough to what the bar pays for the same quantity of beer from a local brewer that it says ‘ah hell, it’s pennies, let’s just charge the same price?’


Ah these summer evenings, off from work on time and in time to catch some Yanks-Sox on the TV. A Chimay Red poured into a Chimay glass, foaming, spotty bubbles amid fine suds, fizzing, lacing. Belgian. Dreaming about gniocci in pink cream sauce due to a random call at the office from a vendor who knows all about Arrivaderci, knows the magic of wine and gniocci on their yellow patio on an evening like this. In Boston it’s forty degrees, but way over here in the kitty-corner, the last of the summer sun – and it is summer here in April, post Daylight Savings Kickover – is fading behind Point Loma. Ah, baseball.

Decay – The Ubiquity Of

At the dentist today and the assistant sticks tubes, pokers, prodders, suckers, latexed fingers down my throat – I see a vision of a faraway day when similarly gloved hands are intubating a feeble me, a sick me, a dying me : a wilting body under fluorescent lights like the indelible image of my little Indian grandmother, her skin still Mexican smooth, falling away from existence in that sad Stockton hospital bed; The doc comes in, does a quick rattle of the teeth and pronounces me cavity free; he is grizzled, hurried, ever on to the next patient; as he finishes debriefing me he’s already moving on to his next patient.

Cities in Dreams

Wash away your yesterdays and feel the heat, taste salty fishflesh, gulp bine why the wottleful, fine, darling; walk in the city and intake through flared nostrils piquant garlic and baked bread and seared meat, stewed meat, baked meat, all the means and ways of cooking life; life feeds on life. Live your day today, and never mind tomorrow, it will come. It always does.

Poetry Scrap

There’s nothing in the swirling world like holding fleshy girl breathing her loamy breath into your muzzle; wuzzle; worming her way into your nook, further, farther.