I am drunk on your breath, while a slave to your sighs.
I live in your heart and sleep in your mind.
Keep me in your eyes, and lend me your hands.
I want to live next to you wherever you choose to land.
There's a time when we thrived near the cockerell plain
In the strawberry fields where we danced and we played.
It's so unbelievably ****** to be three thousand miles away,
We haven't seen we for three years, but we work towards it every day.
Nothing ***** as much as being in the wrong state.
Being in the worst way, and living in the wrong place.

I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.

***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.

Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.

Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.

Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.

The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.

This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.

Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.

san francisco’s known for its fog
and new york, its cities
and me, i was known for you

there was no me without you
perched at the end of my name
like a comma
incomplete and anticipatory

but every now and then
san francisco beckons in the sun

new york is more than just
one mass of blurred street signs
and the loud comings and goings
of nameless, faceless people

and i’m more than just
one guy who once upon a time
told me he loved me

I.
Take a plane to San Francisco.
Drive north on 101 across the Bay Bridge,
Through the tunnel on Yerba Buena Island
past the frame houses of Oakland,
past the oil refinery that ignites the sky
past the dry, brown coastal hills,
which were emerald green just a month ago,
that unfold like a hardback novel
and flatten out into the valley.
Drive north on 80 until you get to 99
and keep driving north,
past orchards that line the road like soldiers bearing fruit
past vast fields filled with soy and sorghum
and the ancient dead volcano which breaks through
the flat earth without explanation or warning
and keep driving north,
Until you reach Chico.  

II.
You can get off at E. 1st Ave, but you’ll have to
double-back to Vallambrosa to get to the park.
Stop the car and walk across the foot bridge.
Over the creek, over the dam that creates the pool
named for the towering trees all around you.
There you will see a boy about to jump
into the cool creek water.
He is about 11 or 12 years old.
He will not see you.
He will not know how far you have traveled.
He is too absorbed by the sounds of the other children
Shouting and playing and the reassuring touch
of the warm sun
gently drying his wet skin.
He does not know
that this moment,
Exquisite and feather light,
Like a glass orb lit from beneath,
Will be locked inside a precious box,
and that precious box will be buried
deep within your gut,
And carried by you both,
For the rest of your lives.

I hear San Francisco loud and clear—
The trolleys chug by in childish gulps,
The steep hills catch the wind's yelps,
The cramped stores house a profound history.
The city cries tears of joy so subtly
That people throw gentle smiles to the earth—
A postcard has never wept into such reality.

Like the shutter of a metal screen,
The sun descends in a tessellation as
Brilliant as the city who silently sleeps
With its grand eyes wide open—
A father and mother at last.

No matter how hard the the wind might be blowing right now, i still can't be brought to where you are.

From boxcars to cable cars
Those blues licks roll off the fingertips
Of mad men
Fighting with their last chance
For their last chance
Looking up at the skies
And crying out
For one last dance with the devil

Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.