There would be Garage rock playing in the back ground—
Yeah, that would be her theme song
And the smell of Brooklyn would follow her
That one time; or first time
When I walked along the Brooklyn Bridge Park
And there was fog; that time
She was standing underneath dim lights with a strange
San Francisco flavor
Tossing notes in to a notebook and tossing that into her music
And tossing that towards everyone else
On her back she had a tattoo: If lost, please return to;
Which I guess was her way of losing that smell;

There once was a time
I had a head and a heart
But no mind
No line
That was drawn
To protect me
From love.
From fear.

Consumed,
I wait in the grainy Fog.
It settles on my nose
Eyelashes,
Ears.

The fear is silent
Yet so loud
I cant help but scream
To overcome it.

Weary
Of this love
I want to shove it
Away

Now what do I say
To my dear friend,
My Love,
Who no longer sees me the same way?

Yet still wants to be close to me,
Pulls for me.
Calls to me.

Alas, all I see
Hear
Smell
is Fog.
Well
where is this
Hell
of a line now?

How
Do I tell
What I need.
Do I feed my heart or my mind
Do what I need, and draw this line?
Or what I want, and indulge?

The fog remains
As a stain.
The answer, I cannot find.

the fog
is home
to me.

I close my eyes,
I am still standing in Santiago Chile.
business people are
rushing back from the lunch break.
the outside restaurants
teaming with customers.
I look up,
the Andes Mountains are head of me
a weak pink fog veils them.
my mom turns to me,
‘honey, that’s pollution’
I’m glad we have the real fog
back home

I close my eyes,
I’m flying back from Atlanta Georgia.
my fellow San Franciscans and I
waiting to see our home, I almost tear up.
our water had gone out that Atlanta summer
and I remember there wasn’t a day under 105 there.
the fog looks so tasty
like I would be fully
refreshed and rehydrated
after only one bite.

I close my eyes,
I’m living in Boston for five weeks.
a storm passes by now and again.
the east coasters complain that
the fog is ruining their city’s
sunny reputation.
the southerners complain
that summer isn’t actually there.
I just smile and smoke,
I love watching the smoke drift into the fog
mingle, then disappear.

I close my eyes
I am standing in Rome
my family- taking cover in a store overhang
there was heavy rains and over cast
, but no fog ever descended for a meet and greet
on that day.

I close my eyes ,
I am looking at the tall slender buildings in Vietnam
along side the main highway of ** Chi-Man city
it is overcast- the storm last night brought down
a tree, crushing a poor shop with a sheet metal roof.
the overcast hangs, and I am feeling
a little nostalgia for home

I open my eyes,
I am back in the sunset district.
I’m laying on my reservoir,
looking out at the Pacific Ocean.
the wind blows inland
whatever weather on the westward horizon
blows in in a couple of hours
the fog sits at the horizon gathering itself up
for it’s long strut to the beach
and I wave to my old friend
it’s good to be home.

Rekindling of spirit
(folding in, billowing out)
with which we end the
day,
I dare you to
leave me.
The sun begs you to stay--
Give him the week off!
He needs a dozen
drinks!
Whiskey, gin, Pinot Grigio,
the whole lot!
He deserves a
feast!

And so the London Fog
stayed.
Coat and tea in hand,
thrown onto the mesh ground
despite,
tea arriving on cue--
Shallowed issues gone
askew,
Heart-screams louder
than the heart-worms
awash across the sidewalk

Day
dark like
Night

The
London Fog
Holds me tight

When I forgive the monsters among the trees, my petals will grow dusted pink--
These days, I have become a skeleton made of thorns,
An unbloomed rosebush stark against the gentle green.
Sometimes I see sunlight beyond the thick-leaf canopy,
Splintered by branches and trunks more mighty than I may ever grow,
And I recall the sweet and far flowered days, wet with morning dew.
The monsters came in summer heat with clouds for tails and roots hard as stone--
They trod rough on my leaves and stole my roses with grinding teeth,
And left me naked among oaken giants.
Six flooded springs have passed, though every dawn breaks cold,
A suffocating haze, thick as if the sky itself fell to weigh me down,
How slowly fog burns under the rising sun.