i want to go to san fransisco
i want to see the world.
there’s a fire burning
in my heart
and i want to see where it goes.

i want to be happy
i want to be okay.

and i’m going to get there,
no matter what.
help myself to stand,
buy my own ticket,
fly away.
let my troubles melt
like candle wax.

i want to go to san fransisco
i want to see the world.
there’s a fire burning
in my heart.
and i’m following it.
all the way.

Drinking my tea
Without sugar-
    No difference.
                                        
The sparrow *****
    upside down
--ah! my brain & eggs
                                        
Mayan head in a
Pacific driftwood bole
--Someday I'll live in N.Y.
                        
Looking over my shoulder
my behind was covered
with cherry blossoms.
                                        
        Winter Haiku
I didn't know the names
of the flowers--now
my garden is gone.
                                        
I slapped the mosquito
and missed.
What made me do that?
                                        
Reading haiku
I am unhappy,
longing for the Nameless.
                                        
A frog floating
in the drugstore jar:
summer rain on grey pavements.
        (after Shiki)
                                        
On the porch
in my shorts;
auto lights in the rain.
                                        
Another year
has past-the world
is no different.
                                        
The first thing I looked for
in my old garden was
The Cherry Tree.
                                        
My old desk:
the first thing I looked for
in my house.
                                        
My early journal:
the first thing I found
in my old desk.
                                        
My mother's ghost:
the first thing I found
in the living room.
                                        
I quit shaving
but the eyes that glanced at me
remained in the mirror.
                                        
The madman
emerges from the movies:
the street at lunchtime.
                                        
Cities of boys
are in their graves,
and in this town...
                                        
Lying on my side
in the void:
the breath in my nose.
                                        
On the fifteenth floor
the dog chews a bone-
Screech of taxicabs.
                                        
A hardon in New York,
a boy
in San Fransisco.
                                        
The moon over the roof,
worms in the garden.
I rent this house.

[Haiku composed in the backyard cottage at 1624
Milvia Street, Berkeley 1955, while reading R.H.
Blyth's 4 volumes, "Haiku."]

I had to let go of your memories
As I did with San Fransisco
With its innocent corners and places
The quaint stores and my shadow

"Does it snow in San Fransisco?"
My little nephew asked
"Not always, but it did long ago"
And my eyes filled with remnants of the past

It hasn't gotten easier, years have gone by
I still remember the golden gate
The sunsets and the pleasant sky
I need you still and in vain I wait
For you to stop by
And steady my pettish state

Listen:
I say today is a beautiful day to exist.
You're existing;
you're waiting for the bus in the heart of San Fransisco.
You're painting a landscape of Penn Valley.
You're selling hashish in Portland.

What a beautiful existence!

I'm washing my sheets,
I'm smoking a cigarette,
I'm reading The Return of the King,
and I'm about to go to work.

Listen:
The cars on the highway are going somewhere.
There are people in those cares who are existing just as gracefully as you and me.
Listen:
They are existing just as harmoniously as you and me.
Listen:
They have no idea what happens to them when they die.


I jumped off a forty foot cliff into the Yuba River a week ago and my last thought before hitting the water was:
'Either I'll live and that will be one hell of a jumping rock or I'll die and be free from ignorance.'

Listen:
I don't want to die, but I'm excited to.
I'm more excited to live and I get to see you tomorrow! I get to hold your tiny hands in mine, a barista and a norcal gardener (if you know what I mean)

Listen:
I love you and I love you and I love you and I didn't lie, I didn't, I told you I'd see you again and here we are two hundred and thirty seven miles away and tomorrow I will see you.

Listen:
Praise automobiles, praise gasoline,
praise hip hop music and praise hashish, I get to see you tomorrow!

I do not wear dresses very often
so every dress I've ever owned
is still hanging
in order
in my closet.

The first,
whimsical and red
a crimson corduroy triangle
green ribbon
yellow flowers
it was for the first day of preschool
but it was also for every other  day
whimsical and red

The second:
Nutcracker pink
for days in San fransisco
when the matching coat
was necessary.
I used to dance.
Nutcracker pink.

The third:
Barefoot lavender
not the color, the scent.
Blue and french
avec des fleures jaunes.
we caught fish with brie cheese
Barefoot lavendar.

The fourth:
Navy blue didn't match
but we sewed the straps anyway
i made the first mistake
you forgave me for that one
thank you
Navy blue didn't match

The Fifth:
White Surrender.
sprinkled with turquoise
I surrendered
I didn't have to
I didn't want to
I'm sorry.
I don't usually wear dresses
I hope you still realize that.
White Surrender.

Whimsical, Red
Nutcracker Pink,
Barefoot Lavender,
Navy Blue,



White,
surrender.

From flat number 40 on the morning of January 6th 2004 I removed myself from the situation.

I felt free that day taking photo after photo looking at the world with new vigour hoping to remind myself one day in the future that the sun peeping through leafless trees on a sunny winters morning brought more joy into my life than anything else at that time.

Out of the blue two weeks later I received a phonecall from you telling me you were moving out.

A week after you moved out you told me you were going to San Francisco for a holiday.

A day after coming back from San Fransisco you told me you went there with another man.

A week after that you told me it was your boss.

A month before you moved out you told me your boss earnt good money and that we never did anything together anymore.

On the night of January 5th 2004 I read a text on your phone from an anonymous ID which said "you consume me. I can't wait to kiss you again"

The last time I saw you I told you I loved you despite the fact I knew you'd left me for your boss. In fact, I knew you'd let him take you away to San Fransisco and he had moved into your new flat. That was the day I realised you'd fallen from grace and I'd put you on an invisible pedestal for the last 8 years. We both needed to move on.

I smile on a sunny winters day when the sun peeps through leafless trees knowing I never wasted my love on you. You were a mere mortal looking for a way out.

Jesus was an alien
and Moses was a hippie.
I saw them once in Vegas,
where we drank wine.
Obviously.

At once I felt like an alien
and soon dressed as a hippie;
but that was Vegas,
where we drank wine.
Obviously.

I won million dollars on the slots
and bought a trip to space,
where I met Jesus, the alien
and we ate cakes in space.
Obviously.

I got back to Earth
and went to San Fransisco,
where I saw the hippie, Moses
and we slept on flower beds.
Obviously.

It was all a bit weird,
but after a while it came to me:
Jesus was an alien
and Moses was a hippie.
Obviously.

It's funny how no matter where you go
everything is the same. No kidding.
I've been to San Fransisco and everyone is pretending to not be fake,
and I've been to New York and they're even bigger phonies.

I walked into town once, two miles from my house to the park.
I walked along the highway and stuck my thumb out the whole way.
No one stopped until this man on a motorcycle did.
He asked me where I was going and I said into town.
He asked where in town and I said the first thing that came to mind.
Charlies Cafe, I said. We rode to Charlies Cafe which was only a 20 minute walk from where we were but whatever.
He didn't have a helmet but that was fine.
He dropped me off. I never even went into Charlies.
I walked a half block to the gas station and went inside.
I grabbed an Arizona and walked up to the counter.
"Anything else for yah?"
"Yeah uh, a pack of Natural American Spirits."
I slapped a ten on the counter and the man asked to see identification.
I told him I didn't have any but I also wouldn't need change.
He sold me the cigarettes and the Arizona and didn't give me change. It's that kinda stuff that ****** me off.

And that's what I mean. You ask someone for something and they act like they're doing you a hell of a favor and then you waive some money under their noses and they're shining your ******* boots.

I got off the subway and to the venue.
There were people filing in and smoking flowing out.
I stood in line, bought my ticket and went in. Some ******* band a friend had told me about who was playing. I was meeting him there in 30 minutes but wanted to scope it out early. A girl wearing fishnet stockings was looking cute in a booth all by herself. I sat down in the booth next to her and ordered a drink. The waiter was nice enough to forget to ask about my non existent ID. I leaned over and asked the girl if I could refill her drink.
She looked at me disgusted and said "I will let you know, that I have a boyfriend."
Jesus, it's not like I asked to **** her or anything.
"Jesus it's not like I asked you to **** me or anything."
I returned my lean to my booth. I'm usually not so curt with women but this ****** me off.
My friend never showed up and I bailed during the opening act.
I walked all the way back to my apartment and smoked.
It started raining.

Cute girls, gas station clerks, weather, they can all be *******.

Places to hide
Idaho
Nevada
Utah
Arizona

Places to fall in love
Italy
San Fransisco
Colorado

Places to never go
Texas

Places to watch the beach freeze
Michigan


Places to die
Greece

Momma big brown eye
So thin
got
snatched up
by those biblical folklore winds
Momma big love soul
in the sands.

Indian man
leather hands leather skin
alley way king.

I hurt my knuckles for you
but never can mean sometimes
if you're like me, and you like me.

If I was chocolate moose that **** butterflies for a living,
and sold them on the streets of San Fransisco,
so that I could sleep in your bed after the disco,
would you stay up all night and tell me your secrets?
or would you fall asleep?


I've sold myself clean,
in the most ***** of ways,
giving out hand hugs,
and those glances, that you know are really sensual,
but it's a secret,
because you want it so desperately
(we both do).

Be happy,
because you know that moments are moments and that sooner or later,
you'll be living in a moment,
and that moment,
will be ***.

When you get home,
You won't help me in the kitchen.

So you walk into the living room
And I get an idea.
I call your name
And you come back in and see me there,
Shirtless, stirring cookie dough.

We end up on that putrid brown sofa
Your arms around my waist
You kiss me until my lips are raw, and...
After, we lay there with your arms around me
And you fall asleep, your breath heavy and slow.
You're dreaming now,
About that pretty girl from San Fransisco.

I roll over and it wakes you up
And we don't know what time it is
But I don't care if we're late
Because you're warm and you smell so sweet
And you kissed my forehead like you did the first time.

I know you wouldn't stop me if I tried to leave
And it kills me
But I'll always be here with you
Even though I know I should be with him
With his camel blues and his tight jeans and his argyle sweater.

He's perfect and
We both know it.
You're nothing and I love you.

Blurred roaring sidewalks
bordered empty highways
and in the name of regret
I forgot that my mother told me to say
"I'm sorry"
instead of
"I hate you"
Didn't matter
you couldn't tell the difference
anyways
because it was too dark to see tears
Pooled up in the corner of my eyes
star-drops in a dim constellation

San Fransisco was foggy that day
with every breath the world ever took from my lungs
and you couldn't see through it
But god, was it
breathtaking, ha
Then they declared me a traffic hazard,
so we went on break for a day

I should've known that sailboats were prone to leaking
like hearts that someone went stabby-stabby at
We were soaked in the scent of rose thorns, and-The
Pandora's Box-we put our faith in something unknown
What were we thinking--
jumped off the side and expected to fly

There's a light at the end of the tunnel, they say
I'm lost
and
well
it's rather impossible to find the North Star when your sky is so caliginous

When my mother dropped me off at the airport
She said, I hope that you find your home
This one is tired and bent at the edges
And it doesn't suit you well
I walked and flew and slept all across the universe
But then I remembered... I know where my home is
My home is walked into the paint-stained carpets of dorm hallways where we taught international students how to curse in English
My home is under the napkins in greasy spoon diner tables where my godfather winked across at me
It's somewhere between the white and the blue in the waves of the ocean
Inside one or both of my headphone earbuds
Under the bark of a eucalyptus tree
Inside the box of waxy crayons on my lap during road trips
Caught like a stone in the treads of the tire of the wood-sided Jeep my father gave me
Buried under a tree in the backyard, with the goldfish and the pet mice
In between the keys of my piano and the keys to my first dorm, first house
In the sunlight through the window panes of my room in San Fransisco
And hanging off the roof with the geckos in Indonesia
It's feeling scared in the school library and at senior prom and in empty alleyways
It's the empty park nine thousand miles away from my mother
Where I whispered to the birds that I wanted to go home
Because I knew no one else would listen.
It's in the scissors that gave me blisters
When I redecorated our house by hand
And the tears I hid from my brother
While I turned up the thermostat to warm his icy soul.
A lot of it is stuck on the roof of a hospital room
Staring up wishing to disappear
Some of it is in my father's bones
And his misty eyes when they started to show
Home is in my best friend's bed
We didn't have our health but at least we had each other
It's my favorite space between the top bunk and the bottom bunk
Where secrets hang like candle smoke
It's the words of a book I haven't written
And the pages of one I don't want read
It's here, it's now, it's etched on my skin
It's me, it's him, it's somewhere far ahead
I don't know what it looks like but I know it will be there.

I blocked you on LinkedIn today
LinkedIn
I can't believe it's gotten to this
That it is so unbearable to see your face or your success anywhere
Before I permanently removed the last remnant I had of you
I looked at your profile
You've moved to San Fransisco
I felt a pang in my chest
A hollow pinch
That I didn't know about this move before
Because for some reason
I still want to know every part of your life
Or at least the big things
The way that I used to
Whatever this is
This Stockholm syndrome of sorts
Has me deeply nestled in the palm of its hand
Beneath bony white fingers
That'll never unfurl

San Fransisco, I’d been here plenty before, but the embers of the city that glowed faintly in mind we’re made up of imagined scenarios I’d lit in my head, a bonfire glowing in the future I dreamed existed outside my parents house.

Now July has come, and I had long ago left the room of my parents house behind, and I  had spent the last year experiencing dreams in my waking life in a mountain town.

But in July, the bonfire of San Fransisco, that had become embers in my mind, roared right before my eyes and I walk the city streets, awake in a world of made up dreams, that keep me thinking I’m asleep, and waiting to awake, standing knee deep in my waders, in a river or stream in the mountain town I had to let go.

With you, nothing is the same.
Kissing you is painting a sunset, and loving you is living in my favourite book.
There is nothing mediocre about you,
and you, darling, are the loveliest piece of art I have ever laid my ever curious eyes on.
You are a contradictory painting of complementary colors, with the perfect blend of light and dark hues.
You are the sun, the moon, and all the stars, you are grass and earth and everything that makes me feel alive.
You are a cozy sense of belonging and safety like hot chocolate by a fire
and a mysterious abyss of thoughts and wonders as deep as all seven seas.
You are a morning stroll through a city on a crisp autumn morning
and a high speed chase down a San Fransisco highway.
You are a slowly burning candle whose flickering flame is lulling me to sleep
and a drug I can not cope without.
You are a collage of my favourite things and my favourite places and a playlist of only the most wonderful songs.
You are a staircase to paradise and a new way of thinking that tingles my senses in the best of ways.
You are the feeling of love and you take me to the most amazing of heights everytime I get lost in the perfect storms in your eyes.
You are what I'm reaching for in the dark, and holding onto until the morning.
You are everything in life that makes me smile, you my dear, are all of the little things.

Why is it that this ****** up
world labels all the creative people
crazy?
They do it all the time.
John Nash
Vincent Van Gogh
Poe
Sylvia Plath
Michelangelo
Edvard Munch
Fransisco Goya
Hemingway
Kerouac
H.P. Lovecraft
Virginia Woolf
This isn't an exhaustive list.
I think it is complete
*******.
I think Artists see the world
differently, so it's easier
to call them crazy, then to try
and understand why they
see the world differently.
As long as the world keeps
doing this...they can go
**** themselves with a
copy of On the Road,
and a tube of Cerulean blue
paint.