Poetry Scrap

Off the rails
Slipping off the tracks of a plan
The ‘hell with it’ instinct –
Hitler in Russia.
History background made me say that
Could have used a hundred other examples
My brilliance is a mind for trivia
When it comes to sticking to a plan
I’m as liable to win as those nutty Nazis
Running their tanks over Russia
Ever narrowing frontal fingers
Ever lengthening supply lines
Sad(ly) complicit men not even stopping
To dig their own graves


Poem for not holding the kettle right

Last night I poured boiling water all over my hand. It hurt – it hurt – for hours, a persistence of pain. And downy snows, full sunshine, a half mile swim. Words, phrasing, paragraphs, familiar symbolic representation does fine with abstract concepts, but pain? A reminder of the roiling reptilian surface rumbling beneath these sentient clouds of one and one and one and one makes one.

29, and a half

Hob nob
Noix jeaune et yaourt
Neighbors chopped down pink flower trees
Rented white chevy for weekend, middle America car
Sunny weekend, suntan, airplane weekend
Duck, frog, shark fin soup – Chinese lunch
Michael leaning in tells me about his women
New music website Pandora, Charlie Parker station
The Subterraneans
Reading in the park full of fall Sunday afternoon football remembrances
Pushups and squats
Mental gymnastics
Jen don’t know what to do today
Tropic of Cancer
Henry and Anais
Letters – my own
7:40 on the clock radio
Madden doing the late broadcast
Fourth or fifth glass of wine
Champagne bottle in the fridge, paper towel cork
Laying on blankets, sheets, pillows, fourth floor air conditioner running
Books, wine dribbling down my chest
Saxophones and trumpets
North beach, paris, jack Kerouac
Adam Moorad = Alan Ginsburg
memories = plus signs
Breakfast gyro at the farmers market
Coffee from Kristen at Carpe Diem
Awake, with an erection
Those rhizomatic moments between dream and waking
Bracing, slight hangover,
Another day
Half birthday
29 ½.

Poetry Scrap

Doting, shameless, Whitmanesque, fuck-all, happy

Sure I was pre-natal in my condition, but then again Lawrence’s sentiments towards convalescence.

My crime against time was not to be in this condition but to refuse to leave it. Constipated with my own self.

The world fresh and new, night into day, a startling blue, and they wonder why I find the same old jokes funny again and again.

Noon, Santa Ana smells of winds rubbing against hills – that’s the friction that makes the heat – and an F-18 overhead.

Meditating. No thoughts but just being. The phuss and rush of all that bandwidth moving north and south, nine lanes worth, I-5.

At night my wine, chopping garlic, sautéing carrots, mushrooms, books, pecking away at poems, smoke, silence.

Poetry Scrap

While riding a bicycle through our city
Vagaries of traffic
Cars that pass at the least opportune moment
Stop signs and how to behave interstitially
Stop lights and where to stand while making a left turn
Making eye contact with drivers
Watching out for cars backing out of driveways
Looking for telltale backing up lights of cars in parking spaces
checking under arm for following cars
making faces at rude drivers
embarrassed at how much space certain drivers give
wind in face and other faces
being blown around and laughing about it
an occasional glimpse at San Diego harbor
glimmering blue and all the boats and Loma beyond,
irregular silver towers of our city, the interesting diagonals –


That CRX I bought this summer? Tried to name her after Anais Nin, but it just wouldn’t stick.

my new ride

She’s an Ana, alright. Just a differently-tempered one:

“Anesthesia is kind of a short story about a guy and a girl who are in love but the girl named Anesthesia is also a metaphor for drugs. And in that song when he says, I’ve got a little gun, here comes oblivion, the little gun can be a gun. You’re not supposed to know whether or not the guy’s gotta gun and he’s gonna shoot Anesthesia and kill her or you’re not sure if the little gun is a syringe and he’s gonna shoot it in his arm and achieve oblivion that way. There’s several levels … you never really know if he’s gonna shoot her or he’s gonna shoot himself. Or if what it really means is that the little gun is a syringe and he’s gonna shoot himself up with heroin. So it’s a metaphor that almost works on three levels. It’s my favorite one.”

– Brett Gurewitz, talking about the Bad Religion song ‘Anesthesia’

Poetry Scrap

Bedtime thoughts

Haunted pleasantly by images of coffee
Coffee pots and porcelain mugs
Tea pots and cups of tea on saucers
Milk being poured into amber tea
A Sugar bowl
The phiss and phuss of esspresso machines
Black oil dribbling into a tiny white cup
The aromatics of infusions
Astringency in first taste
Waking to a blasting jet
Ideas pouring free
Molten ideas on a frigid morning.