to trip

shivering in the bedroom

trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel

middle aged

anxiety on my tongue

finger nail polished half chewed off

scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle

the difference in the mosh pits was

we all beat

each other up together

the other morning i went out

to see some band play

they weren’t quite what i remembered

slower thicker grayer

yet still crazy

jacked up rockin

in some of our heads

high on beet juice and weed

when i stand in my room

i don’t want to just be rockin in my head

i should go to the beauty clinic

and laser off this scar

but i’m not ashamed by it

besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room

and offend some old Barbie

i’d like to be banged by that bass player

and have him pluck on my thing

and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington

singing Spanish riffs into the mike

the band has never heard of me

but we both know how to twirl and punch

and they have to go home to their wives

standing in my bedroom

my moves aren’t quite as swift

the best band i ever knew went disco

and the new bands lack the rage

i try to start the mosh pit

and give the bass player my number

but they twitter about health

things

yoga things

beet juice recipes

CBD things

i watch the boba settle in my milk tea

i know what my fate is

but it’s too gruesome to process

i won’t land the bassist

the price of peanut butter

of course i remember the old Safeway, Hank. in closing my eyes i can see the Mahatma Rice Genie on the little rice bags and Jiffy cost less than a dollar. i was not taller than a yard stick, yet i knew my lime green pastel knit dresses were an infamy. Hank, i recall the prime parties on Berendo street, the last of the beehive hairdo elegant women in turquoise bell-bottoms, i a barefooted brat. and on alternate Saturdays the biker parties in the Silver Lake Hills. the Harleys looked like stallions. in the middle of the week, i can’t remember where i’d sleep, but AC/DC dueled with Tom Jones in my dreams. now, Hank, we have non-GMO juice stands and designer coffee drinks. i’m about a yard stick and a quarter tall now and i dress in black. i still enjoy Tom and Brian, but Nirvana and Cornell own my heart. i finally read the Torah too. but the fears, doubts, agonies and uncertainties are still within my universe. Safeway is now Vons. House of Pies is still there too, i feed on their Western Spaghetti. i’m going at it in a round-about way. Volkswagons’ and Mustangs aren’t what they used to be, but they’ve cut down on bad emissions. Hank, you wouldn’t believe, there’s almond, cashew, sunflower, pistachio and Brazil Nut butter. i don’t talk much, i type on the phone, even on dates, sitting right across the table from them all. i suppose i’ll never see a good bra burning anymore, i giggled at it as a child. but, they have apps for that now. i never really fit in any particular time in LA. from 8 tracks to Alexa and frozen peas to organic produce delivery. i don’t know, Hank. peanut butter today is quite expensive.

bar fight haiku

the nerve is crippled
the blood will crust overnight
then i can go home

the wind at 6 a.m.

i guess now i have to haul

ass on my own. my dog, my tree,

my home, my life. all put away,

in the chambers of my heart.

damn it woman. how can it go on?

i chase your scent, the ring in your

sound. the laugh in the rain, the pound

in your heart. and there i stand.

though broken i am not. i never said anything

to this thought. but you who made me whole,

when i said i could no more. you made me move.

in a direction in front of me.

the wind walks on rice paper. no trail of

you i see. footsteps in the river of

forgiveness washing me free, today and forever.

this is what you left for me.

as i sit alone in this bed of

my own humanity. i feel your touch of love

and there is a 6 a.m. in every hour. you are

in the sun, the moon, the stars, the fog.

you are in the laughter of my

sons and the tenderness of my daughters.

your steel of spirit in the doves on

city cables. in the potted sage.

put me in my proper place,

when you receive me in His kingdom.

until then coffee and cigs;

6 a.m. in life unrepentant.

-to Jane and Hank-

1.16

Henry i know you can see
me. in my rut i can feel the
blisters in my spirit swelling
up again. the prayers only
make it worse.

Henry how did you ever walk
from out of the doors into the
open air? where did you find
the time to convert misery
into diamonds?

it’s so so late in life but
i haven’t been born. the
many things inside of this
bone cage cannot easily come out,
Henry, why?

there is no sun and no moon
divine. the hours twirl and multiply
into clouds of nothing. buildings, caves,
the underpass dull with expression and
righteousness of self.

Henry i remain intact full of holes
with nothing but my germs and
dirty fingernails stuffed with
the scabs of days gone by.

to Buk

sins and smiles

    angelic nothings cry down

cigarette ash at your kitten heels

typer-bang/bang of your letter gun

heart spilled onto the book

              with pencil shavings

   by my side

           innocent beast with naked brain sleeves

    long lost duker wild at heart

contender of my wits-end

jumper of cliffs    lover of untender whores

         drinker of thoughts

captivator of fears  contrary to your view 

godfather of streets

                cardinal of bums

sultan of bars        pope of poems

    big daddy writer   always tried in spite of all

Hank

The Northwest has a different meaning
in this hour of the day.
Hey, Hank!
I’m trying to reach you by the telephone
standing in my blue boots,
but your old call box isn’t living here no more.
Hollywood and Western has truly made a switch.
No more ladies with the leopard print.
No more gentlemen with eyes to squint
at the devastation
of where you
and I grew up.
You know Hank, I never knew the snow.
Not the way nature intended anyway.

Yet, here I stand on Sunset, check.
Western, check.     Hollywood, check.
Melbourne, Vermont check, check check!
Like when I was 20 summers long
stretching out my eardrums
hoping to catch some of your phrases;
some of your breaths.
A mere little prospect. Tiny.
Seeking you out Hank.
Like snowflakes on my tongue.