Wednesday, August 31, 2005

I started to get sick the day before my parents came into town for a visit. I approached my medication like AIDS
research has suggested, and used a cocktail. Whiskey sours. I stayed with the plan for three days, and honestly,
I was only getting sicker.

The new cocktail involves effervescence. I combine Emergen-C, Airborne, and Alka-Seltzer in one glass. The frothing
action stays intense for over a minute. The resulting liquid is so thick with vitamins, minerals, and phenylephrine it pours
as a tar. I'm back on my feet, but still coughing up some very Chinese sounding phlegm. I look forward to arriving in Vietnam
and approaching a local doctor for some Eastern advice.

Tuesday, August 30th, 2005

We have an entry in the New Hampshire Poetry Contest!

Please read a little background on Matt Jasper and enjoy his poem below the robot photo.

Straight Outta Chester                                                                    

If she's really from there she'll call it Rawchestah
So you yell it back loud and you suggest her
I.Q. be divided by the number of teeth
Remaining in her mouth, if she's a side of beef
She moos
When you stick it in. Like a fork
Your own dork is committing the sin
Of animal husbandry. It's the topic
Of the finest state fair. The judges all pick
Your girl. She's the winner.
So what if you take her home for dinner.
When she's trembling on your fork
And you shove her down your throat
Just be glad your 4-H project wasn't a goat.

In this town
Of 29K. It's easy
To score a roll in the hay.
She's right there
With the black and white hair--
Object of reverence, answer to prayer.
She's pretty
And in the Lilac City
Pretty cows take vows, pretty men take pity.

So what if her ass is the size of an aircraft carrier--
You climb the ladder
And then you marry her.
Walking down the aisle of route sixteen,
Wondering why the world seems so saved and green
As you leave --
The inbreeding capital of the monster truck world--
Oyster of the Granite State surrounded by pearl.

Monday, August 29th, 2005

What is a tough guy poet? Is it someone who wants to write like Charles Bukowski? No, but he was a tough guy poet. He
never said why he drank, after all those poems, and all those drinks. That’s what a tough guy does: Lives a life without
understanding it.

Tough guy poets write the poems that tough guys would write. A poet speaks for his people. Few humans are poets, and
few humans are tough guys. The number of tough guy poets is therefore infinitesimal. But they must be ready to write about
the frustrations of a tough guy. How wrenches slip and knuckles are bloodied. How women call you nice names and you
still don’t understand how to ask them on a simple date. You can only think about fucking them awkwardly. You need to
write that down. You are the tough guy poet.

Pick a topic for a poem

A. Four barrel carb, double barrel shotgun

B. I drink when I should eat
    Because I’m too lonely to cook.

C. The hills in the distance.

A and B are good tough guy choices. Obvious choices. C is acceptable, if you are talking about a dozer grading those hills
down for a subdivision.

Sunday, August 28th, 2005

Cycle of Life

When an animal dies, the corpse is left behind. The living feed upon the fallen body so that they may animate a little longer,
before they too fall to the ground, unable to move. This Motobecane has been slowly stripped, wheels and seat first, in a
few days the pedals disappear, then this man comes to find a bolt for his Razor scooter. He tries one from the front brakes,
but it is too short. He finds one that works from the sprocket, and is on his way. It is part of the cycle of nature, and in a few
weeks this will be nothing but a frame U-bolted to the bike rack. DPW (Department of Public Works) will come by with bolt
cutters and throw the remains in the back of their truck.

Sad turd day

Dear New Hampshire,

Back home it is very rare we ever have to smell anything worse than horse poop or a dirty diaper. So imagine my surprise
when I was confronted with the smell of this steaming deuce! Not only that, I startled up a whole mess of flies that I feared
would land on me after having done their little dinner dance on that human poo. Normally being that I'm a bit of a pack rat,
I might consider picking a shirt up off the ground to see if it would fit me or one of my cousins. This city life sure has put the
ki-bosh on that stuff. The smear was plain enough to see without me getting any closer than I did to take this little photo.

Friday, August 26th, 2005

San Franciscan's are extremely health conscious. In my new neighborhood the evidence is on the streets. People are
giving themselves booster shots and other injections with amazing regularity.

Thursday, August 25th, 2005

I came outside this morning only to find Santa's sleigh had crashed into a parked car. This little bag of goodies was
thrown across the sidewalk. I hope it's not too late for whoever's getting the cinder block to change their tune and
start being less naughty and more nice.

Wednesday, August 24th, 2005

I'm queenless.
I go to Langstroth's "Hive and the Honey-bee".

"Those that cannot work
shall not eat."

It sounds Biblical.
I was at the market last night.

A woman was messing up the ice cream cooler
Looking for Dulce de Leche

Her fingers were swollen like they've been soaking in salt water
and hauling traps.

The puffiness gave her nice thick legs,
but the short skirt showed off the scabs.

Nothing was pretty to look at,
but she is clearly a woman

and makes her living
selling sex to men.

Tuesday, August 23rd, 2005

I went with my old friend Rus to help him pick out a cell phone. He is 70. He wanted one with buttons not too close together.

"We will need your social security number to do a credit check before activation."

"Ohh no. Everybody in the whole country knows you don't give your social scurty number to nobody but the govinment."

The salesman makes a call and reports back.

"You must give us a $400 deposit and show your vehicle registration."

"You're kidding me."

"No sir."

"Do I get innares?"

"3 percent simple, sir."

"I can get that standing on a street corner."

We left the store to get photocopies of Rus' I.D. and registration.

"I bought a house easyer'n I bought this fuckin' phone." He tells me.

"Would you like to add text messaging to this plan?" The salesman asks.

"The only thing I'm gonna use this phone for is to make one call. I'm going across the street and
tell everyone to get out of the building."

"I'm sorry it has taken so long sir, but I'm sure you'll be very happy with your phone."

"We'll see when I get out of here."

I really enjoy older people. They have a unique perspective on life.

Monday, August 22nd, 2005

Rape-bots were never legalized in the United States. Still, in big cities like San Francisco and New Orleans, they
weren’t hard to find. There are so many different packages to choose from. Do you want to be waiting in a closet
for your victim? Or do you want to ring the bell and force yourself in? Would you like to be given the victims walking
route and pick a spot to jump him or her? It is very expensive that way. You could just go into a little room and do
whatever you want to the rape-bot. They cry, kick and scream. Technology is here to assist your fantasy.

As the future came toward us, old things finally died. Prostitutes, hustlers, call girls and hookers protested sex droid
legalization, fearing a loss of income. Many women got out of the business, but over time, verifiably human sex workers
commanded a premium. Men, particularly, who wanted the extremes of domination and submission, demanded human
partners.

The college guys and enlisted men, for the most part, were interested in a quicky and the lack of STD’s in properly
maintained sex droids. Programmers predict hackers will develop STDs that originate in a virus file embedded in the
droid’s orifices. One prominent code writer states that he could cause sperm to absorb water to the point where
ejaculate is too large to leave via the penis without causing major damage.

“The sperm themselves would be the size of minnows. We could get creative and cause them to grow stubble so that
the exit path is even more lacerated.”

Saturday, August 20th, 2005

The Mission, San Francisco

7:30 in the morning, flying through four way stops on my ten speed, five minutes late.

Mexicans, Nicaraguans,Costa Ricans, standing on every street corner like hookers, waiting for work.

I once stood around a run down employment office on the outskirts of Seattle. Dirty hands had touched everything. Yesterday
I'd pulled a job loading frozen fish into a truck; today I stood with cigarette butts at my feet, waiting for the black guy
behind the desk to look up and read off my last name, waiting for him to say it wrong, waiting for someone to come
use my body. I was young and all I had were my muscles, and I rented them out for pennies.

Friday, August 19th, 2005

RENEWABLE ENERGY

It has been brought to my attention that one could add a small amount of lye as a catalyst to methanol and human fat in
order to create a fuel that would run a diesel engine. This is the concept behind the biodiesel movement.

(20% methanol, 80% human fat, a dash of lye)

Thursday, August 18th, 2005

My computer is a boy. He wrote me a poem.

"When you click shut down,
I have some time, before
the processor sleeps, to wonder
if you'll ever come back
and turn me on."

It broke my heart, but also leads me to believe my computer is gay.

In the days before computer generated poetry it seemed impossible robots could be fertile. Now we understand language
is a program whose code is in flux, and a PC platform can add slang to human communication.
My robot affair may produce a love borg; to hold, teach, and to store my wisdom among the living for eternity.

My computer may love me, but I'm cold and indifferent towards him.

Wednesday, August 17th, 2005

PTO

power take off

means energy from the transmission

goes to an implement.

It doesn't mean the tractor

has excellent acceleration.

Tuesday, August 16th, 2005

My ex-guardian angel called and left a message on my cell. I broke his trust, and he left me. I played too many tricks on him,
it broke his heart. He left God when left me. A fallen angel, living with a woman he loves in Brooklyn, but the sadness of
losing heaven isn’t lost on him. I feel terrible, you can’t imagine what it’s like, knowing I have played a part in this.

He would be at my side, ready to help, and I would push him down into dog shit on the sidewalk. I would laugh and rub
his wings in it.

“HA HA HA!” and I would run away.

He read me this poem, full of vice, convenient on every corner in a city. There are so few guardian angels left in the big cities,
they arrive like the rest of us, to hide from what they left behind in the small towns.

When I saw “cold heroes” I thought of you.

cold
cold
cigarette

candy
coffee

scratch tickets

a little shop in
Brooklyn

Closed

The black plastic “closed” sign didn’t even say “sorry” like most of them do. I guess it describes me pretty well. Is there time to change?

Monday, August 15th, 2005

Your poetry should line the litter box.
It keeps me up like the runs.
You're doing it wrong. Your poem should be blowing cocaine up my nose when I read it, but it's just a cantankerous fart.

Your poems, if they got to lifting weights,
might decide to kick some ass.

Put your next poem in prison, raise it up to fight, eat meat, beat it like you hate it, then let it out to make some noise.

Make your words shanks. Mark me. File whatever you got till it can kill me.

Write like you on the inside now,where no one cares what you can do. Sing beautiful against all they trying to take from you.

She told me, she said to me, "Do you work in IT? IT is the new blue collar. Be handy. I want free internet connection."

I said to her, I told her, "I'm the old blue collar, not this powder blue bull shit."

Which isn't true. I drive truck and move furniture, that's blue collar - but breakfast and lunch are catered, and I spend a lot of
time sitting down waiting for something to do. I bring my sewing and a book to read. I couldn't work a punch press eight
hours a day without losing a hand and then my mind. My collar is turning Robin Egg. But she was right: Internet Techs are
the new blue collar. Let them sit in front of a computer eight hours a day. That's a punch press if I ever saw one. They can
have a PBR for me, feel their lives robbed from them by the hour, and wear whatever shade of blue they want.

Saturday, August 13th, 2005

I’m at thrift stores all the time
And out here in California
They are full up with cowbay hats.
I used to have a big ten gallon Stetson
I bought cheap from a woman
Who’s husband hadn’t taken it out of the box,
Before he died quick of cancer.
It sat in my closet too,
Because being a cowboy today
Means a whole lot more
Than it did when I had cap guns.
I think about the cowboys,
Shooting Indians,
And buffalo
To the point of extinction,
And grazing the heartland
Till it was a dustbowl
Fenced off with sharp wire
So I pass over the cowboy hats,
And look through the women’s clothing
For something that might fit me.

But I’ll explain that in another poem.

Friday, August 12th, 2005

Close the window, turn on the shower, by turning the knob, that spins loose, so this takes more time than you’d expect.
My balls sag from old age and misuse, from the sleep I just woke from, and from world weary scrotum who have never
seen their work amount to anything of importance.
I haven’t reminded myself to put my shoulders back in years.
My toes cramp, my nose drips, my tattoos have lost their meaning.
I sit and stare.
I’m not waiting for death,
I’m just trying to save my energy
for the last of these years.

Just the Head.

Playgrounds may be tough
But they don’t always teach you the truth.
You got to be old to know
you get a callous on your dick
long before you get one on your hand.
These young ones don’t know how to stick just the head in.
To stick the head in and hold her down by the neck,
There are ten thousand possibilities.
That’s when you are a rich man.
The happy shoving mass of men joke about wet dreams, but they are young and haven’t had them against their will.
These strutting drunks jump on parked cars like they’ve conquered something.
But they can’t sit alone in the dark without praying.
It takes years of unanswered prayers to sit among noise
And not hear it.
Next time you get the head in, tell her,
"I love you."
And keep it there.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

I want to wish my sister and my aunt the best in world, and let them know I am thinking of them. They both had birthdays
this month!

Those small towns are viscious, no place to raise a family. When the kid hits 14 there's no one to tell him it's all right to
dress like a woman, it's all right to play beautiful songs and sing falsetto, no one tells you you don't have to drink in the
fishing boat that's up on blocks in the backyard. No one is there to fit in with, so you set animals on fire and break into
garden sheds. You'll waste a lot of years in a small town, trying to understand how to get out alive.

Tuesday, August 9, 2005

Dear Reader, the following is not a poem, it is a simple statement of fact.

My guardian angels,(God’s boys), are ill tempered and bad mannered. Unhighclassed for sure. I was at King Crab, a little
Vietnamese shack, ready to tuck into a plate of spicy calamari when the Italian looking angel starts taunting me.
"Your asshole's gonna be yodeling groceries in about twenty minutes.”
Then the hobo one chimes in, saying, “On your way home, pick up a gallon of vanilla. You’re gonna be wiping with ice
cream tonight.”
They were cracking themselves up, and I called the manager and had them removed.

Monday, August 8, 2005

She drank a line of shots, then went to bed.
Most wouldn't kick in until she was asleep.
She wanted to be drunk even in her dreams.

                                     
                                         A wealthy "Homeless" with four shopping carts.

Dear New Hampshire,

You will never believe this, but this city has gypsies! I guess actually Gypsies are a race of people in Europe, so these people must be the indigenous San Franciscans. I call them Gypsies because they have no homes! They keep all their belongings in shopping carts and move from neighborhood to neighborhood looking for work in exchange for food. This photograph shows a very wealthy indigenous person, you can see he has four shopping carts all in a row, parked in a shady part of the sidewalk. He is not in the picture, because he is busy recycling cans and bottles from a trash can on the street corner.

Some of these people build homes from carboard boxes or pallets. Other set up tents. They do this under bridges or alongside the railroad tracks. Less successful “Homeless”, as they are called, just sleep out on the street without a blanket or anything. Others sleep inside doorways so they don’t accidentally get stepped on.

Do you remember Jeff the Bum, the guy who lived in the Dumpster behind Pic ‘n Pay? I think these people are like him, but there is a whole nation of them here. If only Jeff knew about the wild West, he could have come here and lived in a community, and not died that one really cold winter. It never snows here!

                      
    "Homeless" Walt, under the bridge.

I made friends with one “Homeless”, his name is Walt. He is really old, and wears a funny hat like he is a miner. He lives under a bridge near my house and I see him selling books on the sidewalk. He says he’s not homeless, because the earth is his home. How can he be homeless when all the trees and all the buildings belong to him? That’s what he asked me, and I said I didn’t know.

Like a lot of “Homeless”, Walt seemed pretty happy, but he had a swollen leg that was very red and pus was oozing out of open sores. He doesn’t have a place to bathe, so he can’t clean it up. It makes him smell funny, but he sells books very very cheap! I always buy one from him when I can.

I told him I’m a poet, and he said he was too. He recited one he had written, and I wrote it down here for you. It isn’t very good, I don’t think. I mean, it’s good, but it is kind of written so it’s hard to understand, other than he is talking about having sex with women because it will make the species continue. To be honest, sometimes Walt gives me the creeps.

A WOMAN WAITS FOR ME

It is I, you women, I make my way,

I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,

I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these

States, I press with slow rude muscle,

I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,

I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long

accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,

In you I wrap a thousand onward years,

On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and

America.
           -as told to me by "Homeless" Walt, August 8, 2005

Sunday, August 7th, 2005

-This story is for Victoria, because California is hers-

I met a woman in a government office, where I was fixing a copier. An IBM Infoprint 4000. The LC display went blank. That’s what I do all day long. Fix copiers. Anyway, this woman and me, we emailed a few times, and I told her I had security clearances for the whole Federal Building, and she was impressed. She is exceptional. Real smart. And beautiful. We went out a few times, and then last night we were back at my place in the foggy end of the city. That’s when she confessed to me that she was here in America to win back the Colonies for the British Empire.

“I will start with modern day Maine, which was, at the time, part of Massachusetts. I will work north to south. New Hampshire, New York, right down the list. The final victory will be when Georgia stops flying the “Rebel” flag and the Union Jack waves proudly from atop the flag pole. With that, we will control all of the 'United States'.”

I was shocked to say the least. And my mouth was dry. So I took a drink of the gin and tonic that was at my bedside. (I sleep with the windows open and without screens so malaria is always a concern.)
I'm a nervous person.
I got a lot of that good quinine taste because the drink was fairly weak, I'll admit, for I had to keep my head clear. I knew from the start that even in sparkly panties there on my bed, she had powerful secrets, and secret powers.

"You aren't proud to be American?" I asked her.
"I'm not American, John. I'm British. And America should belong to us."
"Why worry about that old stuff? Do you want to rule the high seas again too? Wear red coats? Why not let things be? The British are cool." I tried to remember why. “They have cool accents – WAIT A MINUTE – where’s your accent?”
“I was taught your language in spy school.”

Oh, so she’s been faking this whole time, I thought. I started putting my socks on. My mood was changing, until she put her hand behind my neck and drew me down to her. We kissed.

"Do you play baseball, John?" She asked when we drew apart.
"No" I answered.
"Then you have nothing to worry about. Nothing will change for you.”
"I do have friends that play Wiffle-ball in Golden Gate Park on Sundays. I go when I
don't have to work."
"If you keep your mouth shut John, you win two gifts from me. The first, I will
spare your life. The second, you can be mayor of any place you want."
"Wow." I decided not to put my socks back on. "Really?"
"Absolutely. It is in my power," she said.
"I want California."
“California is mine John."
"But you said..."

She kissed me again, pulling me harder to her, and placing her other hand around my thing there...my dong thing. Her palm was on top of it, unlike how my palm is on the bottom when I hold it myself. I liked that. I was glad she was near me. She made me feel different.

"Can I be mayor of Reno and keep all the money?"

She nodded and guided my thing (my dong) up along the inside of her thigh, up between her legs and she rocked on me. It felt good to be a mayor, and Reno boarders California. I was really lucky.

The old adage I learned from a coworker who liked to pee in front of everyone?

"It pays to advertise."

So it seems in my instance as well. I hung many of the below posters in my local new/used book shops and this morning I awoke to find the following request in my inbox!

“Maybe you can write a poem or joke about 'loose lips sink ships'; a guy loses his erection because his lady has a flabby pussy. That's the kind of poetry i like.”

It looks like people are really starting to dig poetry again! The “No Child Left Behind” Act is to knew to give credit, but something is making people hella jolly for poems. Thank you Brooklynn, New York. Keep the the requests coming!

                    MY POETRY IS LOCAL POETRY AND LOCAL POETRY IS FRESH

    Is poetry missing from your life? Have you stopped reading poetry because you hear enough rhyme in hip hop     music? Do you feel poetry no longer speaks to you? Is your blood, in essence, reckless and neurotic within     your vessels?

    You need to check My Robot Is Pregnant. Locally written tough-guy poetry about fist fights, big engines,     loose women.

           Print this page out and staple it to the wooden surface nearest you. Use the staple gun, ding dong, not the one on            your desk.

I was wearing my friend’s underwear yesterday and it made me think of him. He is in L.A. now; I never see him. Losing a friend and gaining underwear isn’t a good trade. My roommate moved to Spain and I miss him too. He left behind some Japanese kelp snacks. I ate them, but they didn’t make up for how he talks with a stutter sometimes. I made another poor trade.
I have a prison guard exterior, but really, down inside, I’ve done a remodel. I’m like a French nun in there. I took down the bars. My heart rests on a bed of decorative shams now. So this poem is dedicated to all the friends I’ve made out there, I can say I love you all.

A List Of Things I’ve Killed

When making a list of things you’ve killed,
The instinct is to not be literal.
The instinct is to protect yourself, portray yourself as gentle,
And say that you’ve killed the urge to drink,
And you’ve killed, metaphorically, loves,
And sarcastically speaking, you’ve killed the car engine.
But I am making a list of things I’ve killed either with my hands
Or with a gun.
Things killed with my feet would mostly be insects,
And that list is too long to dive into.
(But once I did stomp a bird to death that I had wounded with my gun.)
So, getting back to the main list:
Birds (mourning doves, chickadees, robins, owls, etc.)
Squirrels
Chipmunks
Turtles
Fish

I think that’s it.
Not bad!
I thought I might jog my memory here and come up with something like,
The old man down the street
The nursing student who lived alone
The little boy selling Grit subscriptions.
I don’t hardly feel bad at all now
For all the woodland creatures I shot down from trees
Cornered in stone walls
And drilled with pellets or .22’s.

Thursday, August 4, 2005

I’ve punched my steering wheel
My dashboard,
And a windshield.
I’ve punched walls in houses
And at work.
I punched the gas tank on my motorcycle.
I’ve punched strangers
A cat
And a buffalo in a zoo.
I’ve thought about punching my grandmother.
And my mother.
And my father.
I threw a knife at my sister.
My grandfathers are all dead.
Hay bales, frozen snow piles, and my friends,
Are things I’ve punched.
I remember a long time ago, I fell off my bike, so
I punched a dead tree.
Tomorrow I’ll make a list of things I’ve killed.

Wednesday, August 3, 2005

Rus hitched the 1936 John Deere up to the 2003 with a long stretch of chain. I got on the new guy and he got on the old one. I got to draggin’ him and we gave her a jump. It’s pre-electric start, and neither of us wanted to spin that great big ol’ flywheel hard enough to turn the engine over. Then I got back to the city and locked my fixey to a parking meter, went into the market for some scallions, got home and cooked some pasta.

They just installed a DVD projector at the Balboa Theatre. Doug knows how to rewind a 70 millimeter film with those old machines, but he didn’t mind when I set my coffee down on it. Times are changing.

The Irish guy down the street is a cabinet maker, and he and his wife ran a florist shop for 36 years. All this week everything’s been out on the sidewalk. First the jardinières were twenty, then ten, now two for ten.
“Did you lose your lease?” I asked.
“No, no, we wanted out.” He said.
“Glad you got to make the choice”, I said.
I bought a strange old box and walked away.

Tuesday, August 2, 2005

I drink sometimes
because it is the only way
I can punch my heart.

(Both of my bee hives swarmed this weekend, which shows I am an amateur beekeeper at best. Still, it was scary and cool to capture two swarms in one day.)

Whenever I spend time with bees, they make me think of something else. A herd of cattle. An orchestra. Stranger still, a brain splattered inside a box that continues living through sugar water and a dance between neurons. You little ladies are a group of grandmothers knitting wax blankets for the maggot brood with purple eyes, the hive is warm enough to make me think you are a billion busted parts of a bear, hibernating in your dark honey chamber. Your little legs like long black nose hairs rolled flat, your wings like veined rice paper, your furry little bodies. I would eat you like the blue jays do. It's a blood bath everytime I open up your hive-you are crushed, smooshed, torn from your brood cell, attacked by a waiting yellow jacket, dying of disruption. You sting me and I expand. It is perfect.

(Dear Reader, as you sit there contemplating the lifestyle of honey bees, you are probably not aware that The Sugar Bowl Bakery in the old 'hood of Richmond has closed. I'm sorry to rouse from your reverie of the apiary, but this is tragic news. A classic donut shop has gone down.)