Poem - Spider Weaves a Web

Spider weaves a web,
thoughtless is as trust --
an element in the space,
dodging particles of dust.

Alongside a windowpane,
it encounters the cool --
springing on the field of glass
are haystacks made of dew.

Now the spider is the thresher,
linked one to one by light --
as the man, the spider moves,
toiling till out of sight.

-------

Petaluma
at the Washoe House

Cicero and Bicycles / Cicero und Fahrräder

Cicero said, "To philosophize is to learn how to die." And I said, "And you can learn how to ride a bicycle, too!" And Cicero turned around and gave me a good long stare. Ahem.

**

Cicero sagte: "Philosophieren ist zu lernen, wie man stirbt." Und ich sagte: "Und Sie können lernen, wie man Fahrrad fährt, too!" Und Cicero drehte sich um und gab mir eine gute lange anzustarren. Ähem.

Poem - Pub Liar

pub
liar

he has
dead
fingers

he has
hay
for eyes

all he
is: smile

jukebox
smokebreak

hugging
two dogs
on a
leash

he wrestles
a face red
like in a
field

he'd fuck
a chair


------

Lower Haight
SF

As I Traveled Under Your Gaze

Here's what I've learned over the Thanksgiving Holiday between San Francisco and San Diego: Every pretty girl on that 500 mile trek gets hit up by about 9,000 times, every day. The boys try it one way, the young-men in other ways -- the old men with refined technique that could be described as consciously moneyed and boorish. It happens in cafes, department stores, boutiques, libraries, churches, bars, everywhere, and at all hours. A pretty woman learns much about the opposite sex in how they attempt, and then inevitably flame out. Well, most of them attempt and aren't up to the task. Being sober counts! Clean clothes and a nice smile, the ability listen and join into conversation helps!

Square your belt,
and keep on your boots.

If you have on a hat,
hold it when you say hello.

I listened to them and I doubted it all. I listened more and drew diagrams of constellations like Orion the Hunter at a ballpark having a beer, or doing his taxes at the computer, and they laughed. But at San Luis Obsipo, with the crescent moon and a lone star about to land in the sea, I started understanding what had been told to me! The night rose up like a ghost mansion, and at every gabled window a statuesque blue-eyed blonde watched out over the lonely abandoned mountains, and to the forested North, and they searched out over the South to my destination. Thank you, gorgeous women, as I traveled under your gaze.

Poem - Where it Snows

it snows somewhere
i wish i was at that place

to see the type of sky that snows
and feel the bite of tiny flakes

i'd be alone in a field
sloping down to a sleeping lake

and on the other side a hill
with a wall of silent trees

Pome - i reenter/ the present moment

hovering unreality
as real as the pluck
that started a
dumb string
vibrating

my opinion of you
unreal & transitory

my view of me
as laughable as
considering a plan
to lay a foundation
in thin air

i reenter
the present moment

with no tools
with no aim
with no grasp
no you
no me

i write this
and a sigh escapes

Poem - Every Secret

you can't know about others
you don't own them
they don't own you

everything is about you
even what you don't want to know
everything you didn't say

and everybody knows
what you think they don't know
about you, every secret

*

vous ne pouvez pas connaître les autres
vous ne les propres
ils ne vous possédez

tout est sur ​​vous
même ce que vous ne voulez pas savoir
tout ce que vous n'avez pas dit

et chacun sait
ce que vous pensez qu'ils ne savent pas
sur vous, tous les secrets

-----

Escondido
11.14.11

Poem - A Drive with a Breaking Heart

his heart breaks and he laughs
because there is no holding onto anything
not even the delight of the fact
a heart is meant to be broken

the moon is more and so is the ridge
that the moon ran past as he drove on interstate 5
part of a sea of bobbing headlights
counter to the glowing tail lights

faced by the dark house he entered it
faced by white comforter and sheets he lay in them
resented by sleep he dreamed
and then it was a new dawn

he had coffee
he saw friends
he listens
he was not alone

Poem - the leaves in new york city

the leaves in new york city
curl up
just getting into true red and gold
under
the sky of central park
buoying
the monumental needle

-------

In the Garden
Behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art
11.07.11