Winter slips past on either side

As board caresses the snow

Sliding faster and faster

And the mountain is so new

And I am afraid against my will.

Lots of little crashes are fine

But a big crash could snap my wrists

twist my ankles bash my skull

Render me motionless for some time.

And yet, I do not slow.

I dig my edges into white powder skin

Sailing to the left and to the right

On gentle slopes that become more familiar day by day

And promise to place no tree in my path,

No precipice, no yeti,

And so I do not check my speed

Because I have seen the mountain's heart

Through her deep granite eyes

And trust in her natural love,

In our ancient infant connection,

In the gravity that attracts us

And the covalent desire that keeps us close.

Ice stirring restless

Ice stirring restless

Gin and tonic

Takes its toll.

Round and round

Life wheeling goes

Where it stops

No one knows.

Flip a coin

Heads I go

Tails I stay.

Heads god damnit

You always win

With quantum hijinks

And quarky charm

Dark eyes that

Score my brain

Like hot razors

Down strawberry jelly

Eyes that scare

Me and thrill

Me and chill

Me and reduce

My tired heart

With simmering stare

To blueberry compote

For our pancakes.

Fill me with

Your joy, press

Fingers into skin

Into flesh into

Bone into infinite

Space behind eyes.

Dance in one

World, strangers in


I see you

Reflected in my

Eyes in your

Eyes and we

Speak one language

And future beckons

With finger bent

Inviting endless combinations

Of you me

You me you.

It's just math,

And chemistry, and

Physics, and destiny,

Obviously, so come

Here and kiss

Me like you

Feel me feeling

You because I

Feel you feeling

Me and dream

Of forever like

When we were

Young and hopeful

And believed in

Happiness pure and

Love's everlasting embrace.

Source of wool

You keep me warm when I am cold,

O! source of wool! The merino,

                              the rambouillet,

                              the coopworth,

                              the sweet little cotswold,

wrap me in your beastly love

and I will shepherd thee.

A puzzled man searched me for you today,

he queried my machine brain

              of synthetic neurons

                                 and four-colour blood

for the answer

to his quandary,

   his conundrum,

   his emptiness,

   frostbitten human shell,

to which I replied,

       quite simply,

it’s sheep, man.



There's a feather in my cap today,

first day of 2014,

march eighth,

the day I emerge from my cocoon,

my slumber, my content,

my industry, my linearity,

remember the frenzy,

(refrenzy the member?),

san francisco salad

with strange asian vegetables

and lots of pepper

and I'm sneezing,

body grobgrobling,

not used to it yet,

unaccustomed as it were (dear brother),

muscles remembering what stupid brain does not,

stupid brain that makes bicycle wheels square

and squaresickle wheels triumvular in its mighty "wisdom":

penny for your thoughts,


keep your money,

keep your words,

keep your troubles and trials and tricks,

I only want you for your muscle memory,

your instincts and movements,

pupils dilating in the dark,

skin warm, warmer, flush,

lips pressing, parting,

arms tangling with hair and trees and snakes and lullabies whispered by waterfalls that remember the birth of the earth and the infant fibers squeezing burning atmosphere out of lantern lungs and pulling it in again just as quick.

Minnehaha Falls


At Minnehaha the water falls
slower and slower
until you can see frames slipping by
out of sync
projector freezes in brittle air
and great columns of white and eerie blue
stand in silent slopes
and candy cliffs
dusted with white
trying to remember the roar
that winter sealed beneath sheets
but thought is so slow in subzero.
Feet search for footholds
and hands for handholds
and hearts for heartholds,
fellow winter weatherers offer
     words of advice and encouragement,
     ropes, extension cords,
     hands, smiles, photographs,
and somehow, everyone makes it up
and no one is injured,
not even pink hat girl who requires
a mountain of assurance
before each careful maneuver
that could easily bruise knees
                                 break legs
                                 concuss skulls
          and make a grown woman cry.
I reach my naked hand out
        to an unsure climber below-- hesitating momentarily
        (take my hand)
              (are you sure?)
        she extends her free hand
            as far as it will go
        trusting that I won't drop her
        down the unforgiving icy slope
and we slowly stretch our bodies
        toward each other
             until our hands meet
        separated only by
             a green mitten
and I haul her up
                           onto the ledge
                           in one smooth motion
                           over the warm

To Minnesota

Waiting to mount my plane,
stretching to identify the essence of the Minnesotan, the axioms,
the look
       the demeanor
    the smell
  the oh dontcha knowisms
the geographic centrality manifested in the corner of the mouth
or possibly in the shoulder as it meets the neck.

Airport terminals are
    forgetful places
Neither here nor there
Runway sized gaps between
     past and future
     you and me
     men and women
     come and come again.
I always forget where I am,
    when eating the crepe at THE airport,
For there is really only one
    and it is in thousands of cities
           small tall grande venti
    all at once
    and once and for all.
Sanfranfrisko, that's where I yam
                            that's where I was
                            that's where I will be again.
But not forever never
                                          for ever
never say never

We are currently #2 for takeoff.
Flight attendants: brace yourselves!
                             embrace yourselves!
                                    pace yourselves
because it's gonna be a bumpy
ride and those passengers are thirsty
little peanut suckers aren't they.

Out the porthole
it's cloudy and I can't see shit.
How bizarre--
Closer to the stars but
     further from the bars.
I wanna flap my wingadings but I
   haven't got any,
 just these fingery appendages and they're
    not even webbed.
A star piddles on the horizon,
twinkles a bit,
clearly not so sure of itself.
It worries about burning out before it
    can finish burning in.
A few billion years, such a brief amount of time
       to shine,
       to live.
But bitches need that stardust for
   blings and rings and things
          so sing until the singing's done
        that's what I say.
It's all you can do, and
    you gotta do what's gotta be done.

    That magic word always works,
         there you goo!
says the bona fide Minnesotan attendante.
Utter. Hospitality.
And not the Viking kind, either,
           have my finest mead because
           I'll probably kill you tomorrow
           with my double sided axe
      kind, but rather the
            holy smokes the world is a
            super place so let's be friends
The embrace of Minneapolis,
        so politely forc'd!
The smile of the Minnesotan,
        like staring into the sun
        after spending a week
        in a cave.
Sometimes love hurts, and sometimes it burns.


in short reverberant bursts
down Clarion Alley,
gentle beating of cathedral air
with holy wings
not doves
or gargoyles
but Mission pigeons
dirty and weathered
cooing softly,
while murals ooze
from the walls
drawn out by
misty coastal rain
or rainy coastal mist
that inflames colors
tattooed into brick
and wood
and concrete
by eager hands
grasping for ugly truths
hidden in plain sight
and uncovering them
stroke by stroke by solemn stroke.

Strange sleepy silence
cloaks the alley
muffling the
Mission and Valencia street din
allowing softer subtler voices
to crawl out
from the cracks
swell into
ubiquitous obvious undismissable
staring you in the face
like redrum in the mirror.

My hands are red
but I don't know how I got here
I don't know how I got here
I don't know what to do
Tell me what to do
I see you, now,
I feel you
but I feel helpless
in the face of this great monster,
Moloch, old monster of our forebeards

Who cannot be killed by conventional weaponry,

Who cannot be defeated by one man or two
    women or three gays or four Arabs or five bums
    or six artists or seven techies or eight
    nine-headed tender hearts,

Who can only be toppled by a million small cuts,
    patient persistent leavening of complacent
    populace to ferment discontent and twelve
    Moloch's unlucky thirteen:

stagnant heteronormative sexist xenophobic
    racist classist reductionist superstitious
    dismissive closed cold composed unlucky.

Only one way:
                         keep     fucking     cutting




Harsh winter sun

Harsh winter sun:
Fat cigar burning slowly through tissue paper.
I got high on forgetfulness and weed and
Rested my sunglasses in a Hayes Valley restroom
And then they were gone with the

Wind in San Francisco is a thought
Struggling to breach the layers of uncertain cloth
Reach the skin
And be noticed by consciousness
Lauded as sensible or interesting or whimsical or sexy.
Sexy sanfrancisco winter wind
Sexing sexless and sexed people alike,
Sexing science,
Sexing the arts,
Sexing republicans,
Sexing it black and sexing it white,
Sexing malewomen and femailmen,
  ice cream person,
   gender bender superstar.