I revisit that night and
I don't know why
I don't know why it took so long for you
to get there for one thing
I parked
Which took some time
But I found a spot
I won't be towed
And I walked to the hotel entrance
and waited
far too long
I took out a cigarette
And I bet I smoked the whole thing.

You never showed up which was strange.
Did I start to smoke another?
I thought that I was being polite
waiting on the curbside
Eventually R. and his girlfriend showed up
Super late
But polite which was no longer something to
expect from anyone anymore I found

They collected me and we went up to the
Penthouse
And there you were
Did you race like a daemon
breaking those presumptuous,
Certainly useless
Laws pertaining to Physics
just to get up Fairfax Avenue?
You ran to get to a party
that you were only invited to
because of me?
Without me.
This is not normal is it?

Your excuse upon my arrival was ******.
Idiotic.
I walked away.

On the balcony
I stood with you and R. again
We had avoided one another
throughout the night
yet always collided back
like opposing atoms.
Was that my doing?
I really think that that one was
your trick.

One of you had a joint
And I thought to myself
O *******
Thank God
It went around once
maybe twice
And then became a two-step
Without me
(Again!)
Back and forth between you two.

I was
standing there quietly waiting
like it was a game of jump rope
Watching for the moment
when the rope would let me in
My turn would come up eventually cuz
I'm standing right here.

I think one of you
R. probably
Handed me the joint
now dead
A stiff speck of rolling paper stuck between
*******
And the two of you
turned and walked away from me
Without a care
Brothers-in-arms

Well this isn't that sort of party.
Boots on the ground.
Blood in the sand.
Pack on your back.
Gun raised.
The stench of iron and salty offal.
Heroes in The Battle of Normandy.
I am not an Axis soldier and i know that you are not Allies

This Chateau is modeled after one
in the Loire
so the legend has it.
And this is a totally different thing altogether.

Wasn't your father, a fireman and you, his firestarter?
Didn't you watch him
put out your flames on the local tv news
while you lay on the carpet chin in hands, full color?

Did I follow you both back inside?
I think that I didn't
I hope that I didn't
How do you follow that?
I know that I walked to the balcony's edge
And settled into watching the rings to my right
The smoke rings from the cigarette
of the Marlboro Man
perching above Sunset Blvd.
what have I done?
how has it come to this so fast?

I may have joined in
Blowing rings from up above
I made O's very well in those days
One after another
One inside another
The billboard too
We're strange amigos we
Our rings float away unfurling
into thinner mists
While the white and red lights of cars
down below us
Rush into the sparkling night air
East
West
Somewhere other than here
My circles disappear above my head
His circles too.

Did he seem to you like a happy cowboy?
Rugged and determined
Those unsentimental eyes
Narrowing fearlessly at a blank manifest destiny
O
O
O
O
It's endless but I can keep up.

Looking at him from were I stand
I know that I will need
some of what he's got
to get through this
situation.
I thought that I had it on me.
I thought that I had packed it.
But somehow it's taken its leave or
Gone Missing.

He's not even real
This eminence to my right
Just wood and paper and
a mechanism making steam look like a plume of carcinogens
O
O
O
O
Yet I look at him a bit jealously regardless
Funny to feel that way about a billboard
Maybe cuz he's kind of a man
Maybe it's his hat
But it's true nevertheless
His rough hew cardboard evokes

the self determination at all costs
here above Sunset.

I will leave this penthouse
with its sick yellowy light
Dash into the elevator again
Make my escape
Light another and
Blow those rings.
Messaging
Mayday
Signaling my location
Above ground Terra Firma
Not underwater in depths that
cannot support life
R.'s been dead now almost twenty years
By his own hand.

Tomorrow I will try again
I hinted to myself
barely believing
I still have my lighter and what cigarettes are left in the pack.

i'm reporting to you here
From the women's bathroom stall at
(nam withheld) solo show
At the (name withheld) Gallery
Located on (name withheld) Blvd.

I have to say
that it comes as some relief to be sitting here
with my little plastic cup of sour wine
resting comfortably
on the cold tiled floor
I sit upon the plastic, seat cover down
the door closed and latched shut
What with my notes and my phone
and my purse over-full
Everything in here is the color of a rotting
peach, hard stone exposed
And I wonder what the color is
in the men's bathroom?
A bruised purplish tomato?
A dull pinky brownish mayonnaise?

It is very crowded out there
Way too many people
I came to see paintings painlessly
and I can't see a thing
but I can jostle with the best
except that I'm completely exhausted.

I know it sounds naive, sure
that I don't mind saying "Hi!" and
"Hey!"
without the whitest of smiles
But then what do you say after?
No worries.
I am charming.
I will do
all the work
I will make you laugh
Tantalize you with my wit
My Enthusiasm or Disdain.

I'll try to come back again
when this space is empty
perhaps commiserate leaning in at the counter
If I feel so inclined
Gage my conspiratorial tones
by the eyes that face me
Grim?
Resigned?
Expertly Professional?
and
it may in fact be quite lovely then
Now airy, the galleries.
Or it ill be a quick and disappointing
walkabout and out
I may not even need to say "Thank You."
because no one cares.

For now I will practice my breathing
And think about dead third generation
Abstract Expressionists like
Norman Bluhm
or Joan, my one true love

I'm pretty sure that on the floors out there
I've splashed my wine about
which will prove to be rather
unfortunate
for someone
who skids in kitten heeels.

Did I mention that Blankety Blank came with
yet another brand new spouse?
Bold as day.
She seems like all the others very nice
A mid-tone wheat-y blonde
Petite
So far her ready smile is a solid
and her interested gaze noteworthy
Too shy to wear the engrossed face
Her mouth is primly closed.
She seems polished and stands rather well
despite no one talking to her
after the Introductory Handshake
Her power may grow with time
what with that ring on her left finger.

I thought that the husband was still in jail
to be honest
or had fled to Barbados
to sell the same rolled oil on canvas
over and over
to different buyers and still keep the scratch
And the canvas
rolled, wrapped, and neatly stored
The artist seems to be fine with it
although she will never be paid.

Out there beyond this door
Stand
I can't get a proper count
because it's five people deep
and their backs are to the walls
I watched someone walk passed
something rather beautiful
although they didn't notice.

I for one nearly had my right eye
knocked out by a shock of
titanium white
that was totally
uncalled for.
It's on the eastern wall and a
scene stealer no doubt
Probably already sold
Probably hung already sold
and it's gonna make the cover of
everything.

Personally I'd like to take a knife
and slice it full across
remove the white offense
leaving it crumbled in a mass on the floor
Now a loser's cape bright enough to be seen
in darkness and stepped over lightly
like so many others.
Out there.

When I leave this stall
I'm gonna toss this cup and
I'm gonna run
and in so doing
quickly side step
another tangled bundle
I will look intensely to find the hero
instead, confronting as one does
dark filthy textiles
and thread counts
and only in the passing
In my beautiful raiment
A vision I am sure
will my eyes reveal
that the over familiar tangled bundle
the blanket is
no one's cape
but some exoskeletal remains left behind
and its creature, gone.
No ragged head.
No ***** feet.
No professional smile.

I watch you **** on long, gnarled fingers
With short, clipped nails
No color.
You pull them out of your mouth
One at a time
with a subtle but emphatic pop
One
Two
Three and
Four
'Round and 'round
Thumbs perhaps, but pinkies never
Other times you juice
the corner or a small white washcloth
with your saliva

I watch you look at the window
Unwavering in your attention
Focused straight ahead,
Your chair is turned
so that e can all sit together
In the common room.

Dad wants to leave
As soon as we've arrived
He'd say something wildly odd
to what
had been
his wife of fifty years, like
'What's up?'
or
'Howryadoin'?'
Something impossibly dumb
As if he would've
ever said such a thing
To you
In Real Life.
Now pandering for some predestined response
Or a cozy yet bewildered
glance of surprise
or perhaps a
vague
familiar
girlish
smile
The one you wore when he first met you.
But we both know that those days are
long gone.

I watch you as you face
The bright Valley sunshine
The yellowing grass
The trimmed hedges
The cement blocks that maintain
these locked-down
Premises.
But what do you see?
Were there any little birds,
As I no longer can remember?

Do the multitudes
that comprise a random cosmos
approximated by optimistic formulae
Although imperceptible to Dad and I,
Dance just for you?
Does it share with you
sweet confidences and miracles?
Promises and Reassurances!
I'd like to think that,
but I have my doubts
Your face
Your eyes
Show no such delight.

There as a time when you were always
delighted
And too, there was a time when you wanted
to escape
with a sly
"So where are we all going next?"

Dad grows more uncomfortable
But its alright
I can sit here by your side
I tell him
45 more minutes
I wear a watch
for just this sort of thing
although he's ready to bolt
This Disease
His Love
A Mystery before him
Despite his Science,
Gone.

Me?
I'm fine
For I have lost nothing.
I look around the common room
The patients are set up
Round like a clock.

At 11pm lay the catatonic
Flat
Staring motionless
faces up
to the ceiling
In recliners. Peaceful.
Accepting.

At 1pm are those who can still sit at a table
with minimal supervision and eat
or read a four color full bleed spread in
a fashion magazine upside down
Just like in the old days.

At 4pm sit the difficult, flighty ones
with aides to feed and wipe their faces
of soggy gruel and fruit pulp
Obstinate
Rude
Incorrigible
And prone to choking.

At 6:30 the piano sits alone against a far wall
Abandoned yet prepared
Not slighted in the least.
Do you believe that angels can swarm?

We three sit together at the 9pm table
your other companions silent
Not playing cards or Sudoku
Nor reminiscing about a forgotten past
By way of some forgotten language
Inevitably, they will disappear
with no explanation
never returning
And the new ones will take their places
days later
Silent still
Always silent
In our little
Corner.

The clock, it moves like fateful musical chairs.
It has an intelligence
It is a system of management.
The designations, a terrible prognosis
encircling like a snake
towards your final hour
Which may be after 4 or perhaps 11?
This is a Map of Demise.

What turned you into a 9pm
because your weren't always?
We arrived at this table from some place else
Although from where I'm not at all sure anymore
It seems they moved you around a lot
And I have been watching you closely.
I fear that the hour hand
is not your ally.
The minutes hand, neither.
I look out the window with you.
And I wonder when the time will come
For you to rest in the white naugahyde recliners
Motionless and
Unbothered.
Accepting.
But I do not expect you
to make it past
this hour.
Would someone tell me please
what does it really mean to be
a 9pm on this clock?

81

To Morrissey: I’m not mad

(I saw you
once
strolling up the Venice boardwalk
at sundown
You had the biggest biggest smile
On your face
Which even at that time seemed
Out of character
I had in my hand
What i had come for
The six white athletic socks for 10 dollars pack sold on tables under nylon tarps
And as we both walked up the boardwalk
I thought to myself
What do you have to smile about?)

It is my wish that when you
Revisit this earth again
In your next incarnation
And adventure
That you return not
as an overripe spire of blooms
but as a
Small piece of iceberg lettuce leaf
Too young
too immature
to reach the others alongside you
Your curl a little anemic and so very very delicate.
Just a bitter yellowish bud.

Or you could be the stalk of Iceberg
that’s chopped away
And perfunctorily discarded
pretending to be cabbage in a cole slaw that nobody wants

At the end of the day
The staff may try to hurl you into the dumpster behind the Greek Diner or Chinese
But you won’t make it

You will slip out of the ******* bags
And fall onto the gravel drive
In the spitzing rain.
Growing more
Translucent
Inspected by rats and old hungry pigeons
And maybe a lost snail

And even they will walk away
This won’t be like Wembley at all

As the sun rises the trash men come
But you’re stuck on your back
or twisted on your side
appearing smaller than you are
are overlooked
Bags are tossed into the truck
yet you remain
Waiting

Later that morning
The hose comes out to wash away debris
That would be you
And you reluctantly perhaps
and bit painfully
peel most of yourself away and flow down
the sidewalk with all the leaves
and cigarette butts
and orange peels
To the gutter
And then into the sewer
And then before you’re even aware
The River
Where a fishes’s mouth quickly opens and scoops you in
and just as quickly
Spits you out again
(Your little bits)
To float slowly
Since you’re so light
Transparent
Really ephemeral now!
Your very last traces.

You float down to the bottom
To this other side of the clear blue sky
and dissolve gradually
Not gracefully
into a chilling primordial smear
of muck and sludge.

Here may you find Stillness.
Here may you find Rest.

Stepping onto the spray of pebbles
making our way onto the grounds
I considered to myself
And to myself alone
This will be a pleasant evening
with all parties involved behaving
as they should
Or something else entirely.
Something low.
Bellies down.

We gathered before
a small card table and
made our way unsteadily
Weaving up the incline
like skiers intertwining
down the molehills
to the properties.
Up is down.
Not good.

You moved to the right
Sprinkling pleasantries in one direction
and into one direction only.
Close and physical.
Like a sprite always looking up in quiet confidences
But a bit too early.
I wondered
Did the companion notice?
Can this companion see the play?

When too many seconds pass
And it’s time to head to the right
Where I am strolling
Disturbingly care free
Unattached and
No sign of attaching
You shakily try a few words
Yet offer no enticements
for that **** costs
It’s expensive
So you hoard and bestow sparingly
To well considered targets

Knowing this
And that there will be no payout
My body has told you that much
You return back to the companion
again and again
Softly stepping And considering
with your magical archetype-wielding
Hustle and shake down.
A threadbare con under the moon
And blackened sky.
I am left alone.

I had looked into your eyes at some point
and wondered
What are you? Peering deeply.
Are you a daemon?
I felt badly. To wonder
And certainly not for the first time
That this extended moment
sitting side by side
On stools
In the Mexican night
Was with some kind of creature
Not human
Not kind
A predator
You said so yourself
With pretty eyes
And two harmless old canines.

We sat and waited for the companion
Who showed up with a bottle of wine
And we sauntered back to your rental
The senile dogs entered and retreated immediately
into the darkness
to face the walls
immobile yet somehow agitated
A bad sign.
Spirits are here.
The dogs are aware.
You have said that they could be
Easily corrupted by being pure souls.
By a force that’s
bent upon the destruction of
All Souls
Not just dogs.
However if you asked me
The devil gets his due.

God that’s funny.

You withdrew to get them sorted
In the darkened rooms
Especially that dusky mauve poodle
A miniature with a frazzled dying coat
And questionable eyes
Blindness or Defeated?

You and the companion dug into your chicken
Ravenous and American style.
I, horrified, ate a bland soup of corn

Out came notes and pens and post-its
And the data was exchanged across
the central kitchen prep-table
with the white quartz top.
You paused and turned to your right
Facing me and my spoon
And speaking under your breath to your shoulder
Confirming with your angels
and channeling guides
That the real estate numbers looked good,
In what wasn’t any language
that I’m familiar with,
But they validated your inquiry
As they should
And perhaps you scribbled a notation
Or a mathematical calculation
Perhaps not

The companion saw none of this
Apparently hearing no little squawks or soft babble
Too busy grinding into her meal
and her resentment.
This is not going well at all.
My soup is bad
My company is bad
I must change this immediately.

But
The companion has a word for me
Instead
You are too nice
You have made yourself too available
You will get hurt by bad people in this town
You with that sweet smile
Warm hands
huggable shoulders
kissable face
and laughing eyes and all those euros in your
Change purse!
They will mean you harm.
I know about these things.

I chose not mention the man that drew my portrait that day
Although it did look like a rock
And yes the one that arrived at our lunch unannounced and uninvited
That did not go over well either.

But you
You have your daemon
You are safe
And protected
And loved
Touching fingers
And make offerings at her altar
by way of undeveloped but
prime
real estate
Giving the devil her due.

Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

ROMP
noun
1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

Eventually
(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
Eventually
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
drying
in wait for
me

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Dust?
Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
possession
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
Astray
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
Dyspeptic
Disagreeable
Cheap
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
Alone
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Airborne
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.

Is it the possibility of
Some unforeseen yet magical
disappearance or
Of it being
Loped off
That makes one so very aware?
Erections must give great reassurance
Yes!
It is I
I am here
I am still here

Freud says that women want one
That they look down and see barren flatness and one fine line
instead of a mounting glory
A majestic rod
But I think perhaps
Freud is more afraid of losing his
Would that make him a woman?
I think not.
She is not on the right side
of the minus sign.

It must be a perpetual
Existential terror
The possible fate of Bobbitt
the Marine
Having one’s sliced off and
Thrown over the roof into the tall grass
Where the cops won’t go
unless the dogs go first
It’s so easy to do
Look it’s Mr. No *****.

One must understand this
From a very early age
And what of the consequences?
Shall we build effigies everywhere
Living spaces and statues
And talk about them all the time
And never learn
how to get the stream into the bowl?