Me and her tossing around the old
Citrus paradisi on a sick afternoon
that whock or plop stuck in palm mitts
and feel like softball flung flying
eventually I get sick of this pitching
and take a Thompson machete
Japanese steel to that big fruit
and then go to town with a spoon
sluriping fruit, chewing up seeds
good florida citrus made me-food

Cell/Mobile Phones

An idea :

Sitting next to this girl in Peet’s this morning. She’s blogging away and I realized that we’re probably no more than 2 degrees seperated from each other. Or who knows, maybe we read each others blogs, email each other, we just don’t know each other. Yet. So neither of us breaks the proverbial ice, the barriers between us.

I think our cell phones should be helping us get together. What we need them to do –

– Have multiple modes – let’s cal them Private, Normal, Social, Hypersocial.

– Private means private. I’m on a date, or getting some. Don’t bug me.

– Normal means notify me if any member of my groups walks in the door.

– Social means notify me if any member of my groups is within a customizable radius.

– Hypersocial means I want to meet people. Tell me about people who are here and are within x degrees of me in any of my groups.

What will this require?

– GPS, granular enough to know which establishment I’m in.

– An easy protocol, like rss, for established groups like myspace buddies or sandiegobloggers to get in on it. I don’t want to have to join some new group for this to work – it needs to plug and play with our established ones.

How to make money? Advertising, sure, but how about this… a financial planner pays $x to have access to a group of people who are looking to switch retirement plans. Or to a group of people who are mortgage pros, because he’d like to partner with one. Does it do the work for her? No. But it lets her know when to bust out the icebreaking skills, and target selection is often half the battle.

Poetry Scrap

I’ve gotten some questions and some humorous flames (Bring it! If you’re not pissing somebody off then you’re not trying hard enough!) about the poetry I’ve been posting lately. Do you mind if I provide a brief, bulletwise defense?

– Poetry is a tough genre. Kinda like modern painting – really really easy to produce a mediocre rendition.

– And really really really tough to produce something worth experiencing.

– A poem is an idea, condensed.

– I believe in the pyramid model of idea value. Most of our ideas are at the base – they suck, for whatever reason. That’s maybe 80-90%. Most of the rest are decent. Maybe 3% are good, if you’re lucky. Maybe 1% of those are great.

– I’m at best a decent poet.

– Which means most of the time I’m a terrible poet.

– Which means that most of the poems that I post suck.

– In fact most of them aren’t even poems, they’re fragments of ideas. I look at this space as my notebook, my research log. You peep into Walt Whitman’s or Percy Shelley’s notebook, you’re bound to find some godawful stuff.

– No, I’m not comparing myself to Whitman or Shelley.

– But on the other hand, why not? Why are we so afraid to say ‘Hell, someday I could be just as good or almost as good as ….’ at something?

– Looking back at the more than 150 poems I posted in 2006, I think 15 or 20 are decent. Another 15 or 20 contain some decent lines that can be mined. There are maybe 5 good poems out of the bunch. Is there a great one in there? I hope so. And I hope I can find it. While I’m searching, I’ll post the results and frustrations of my writing/editing process here. I hope you enjoy them.

Poetry Scrap

Good god I’m rhyming today, I must have gone moron in the overnight… someone hit me with a skillet or something…

There is no finer deliciousness / than to feel like it’s Christmas
That sort of expectancy / a sunlit radiancy
Up with the sunrise / wide-eyed and energized
By a solar return / the boy, he’s reborn


Hugh @ has been collecting 500 word manifestos for the last few months. I’ve learned a lot from them, and finally this week I decided, you know what? It’s high time to do my own!

Here it is then – The Naughties Boss’s Manifesto

Boss is an antiquated concept, dead as the dodo and overused similes.

I don’t want to be a boss anyway. I want to lead.

Leading is not you doing my job while I play golf, or surf blogs, or whatever.

You work for me, but I also work for you, or it doesn’t work.

You don’t owe me anything…

…Even though I pay you a salary and a bonus.

…Even though I let you go early last week.

…Even though I’m nice.

I owe you everything. I stand on your shoulders, regularly, often in times and places that you’re only vaguely aware of.

…We call them Management Meetings. Sometimes we discuss you in them, sometimes as if you were human capital or human resources.

You are not my human capital or a human resource. Human resources is an antiquated name, it should be flushed along with ‘boss’. You are on my team. If I shouldn’t be playing QB, we need to talk to the coach.

To continue the football metaphor – it is not your fault if I fumble the snap.

I will not overuse sports metaphors. I triple promise.

And I’ll try my hardest to keep pointless buzzwords to an absolute minimum.

I would behoove me to focus on value-added organicness.

(Sorry, that was supposed to be funny. Bosses have the worst sense of humor.)

Our mistakes are my mistakes. Our successes are your successes.

If I’m not passionate about something, how can I expect you to be?

If I leave early every Thursday, how can I be upset about you showing up at 7 after?

I will work hard for your extraordinary success, because you’re working hard for mine.

You are not chained to me, you are not in my hierarchy, you are not my heir. If advancing to my side or even above is what’s best for you, I will support it.

All that loyalty currency I purchased with 100 kind words and letting you go early every Friday? I wiped it all out in a moment of frustrated anger, didn’t I? Or when I didn’t stand up for you, or when I stole credit for your idea.

My ‘gut feelings’ are as accurate as any assessment made by something that’s full of shit. When I trump the hard data that you worked your butt off to collate with my gut feelings, I’m smearing it all over your face, aren’t I?

I don’t have to be the one who’s proven right.

It’s not your idea if the results are bad and my idea if they’re good.

It’s nobody’s fault, let’s figure out how to fix it.

I will try to help you find out what you really want, and then help you help yourself to get it. Everything that I really want will follow from this.

All this philosophy? It’s all mumbo-jumbo. That is unless I really believe it, do it, be it. Then it’s the most precious thing ever.

Poetry Scrap

Like to put airs of HMS Indomitable
which I’d play in a skit
in reality i’m imminently torpedoable
dauntable, leafy in winds and on waves
buffeted leaf, cell walls and all
but weak, falliable
afloat through folds and charlatan tricks
toms and fools
shooting sparklers off my stern
in this brief voyage across water
that’s either a bathtub
or an ocean
but calm for now

Burning Man

After four months ruminating, finally tonight a Burning Man poem comes out.

Fugueish flutes dense and moaning in the key
Of my dreammare – waking walking working
Machine life, logical decisions, filling boxes
Flute music bootstamped to shreds, fuck silliness –
Impatient, unsatisfied, successful
Shirt and tie, nice suit, collar high
Banging, boffing, boring, scoring
A black ant’s exoskeleton like crispy and crusty
Mandibles for a nose and multisectioned alien
Eyes devoid of balls – robo-mechanica-nuts-bolts

Geolocated con coordinates
A scape of red / brown / blown
Sunless playa
A mountain, distant, lone,
god-head to a beach world
not even mocking, that emotion-

silver flash
beat, beat
heat, miser, rising, an airplane
girlflesh, that’s her
fucking rhythmically this meaty bald grinny fool
at the edge of a fence at the edge
of this swarming dervish silver dreadlocked ganja rasta green gassy liquid firelife rainbowhair prunefat bare nipples black lace pink fur coats cowboyhat grinning joking Israeli funball machines ay-rab piratical captian maniacs straw hat bare assed bikes bicycle bicycle bi-cycle cyclone tornado hurricanes and butterflies buststorm darbie doll screwball shortskirt legs legs bronze musclur succulent legs pigs spit roasted kahlua morning fat titties cups of ice shots of espresso manian madman eccentric mathematicians gathering over pies tattoo artists wifi interconnected networked nodewise bulletwise peacewise partywise titties out cocks out nutsacks out bare warm nurturing nutrientladen ecstatic loving hugging kissing tonguing healing nurturing babyish kittenish pregnant girls with intellectual husbands topless teenage girls whistling at bike riding boys codgers in chaps with hanging wrinkleflesh perfect body body body brunette braids blue eyes in stars and honey young youthful appearances nubile hearts minds spines white bones anal-log and just plain mass-fucking


(vida, vida, vida, vie)