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The One Poem I Wrote In San Francisco
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The gap toothed Negro
swivels like the sun in an alley.
A Chinese draws a sword
and hales a bus
which runs him over.
Everyone flows to the right
wandering in with the cars
a lone security cop moves left.
The swirling Negro leaves
San Francisco painted in salt,
off to direct his new mental picture.
If I could just lie down
with all these buildings on my back.
Then, in the morning
rise like a giant
and walk down the coast.
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The Ex-Porn Star Retirement Center
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In the future there will be eighty year old
porn stars.
I could retire with them.
Watching their bodies under
simple old lady dresses.
Wandering the building with a slow gate,
one hand stroking the wall,
mouth open,
drool falling out.
And seeing their eyes turn on subjects
of love and photographs.
It would be wonderful
with a mug of coffee
giant old house by the woods.
A blockbuster and
take home pizza near by.
I would want each to have an advanced degree
sitting on old couches,
talking of Schopenhauer, Neruda,
Thoreau, and Fudd.
Listening to Bach and Metallica.
Maybe no talking,
just the sound of birds
on the screen porch
a couple days deep in July.
Maybe just a slow gathering
of images
as I always have,
relishing hands cooking,
mustached lips, smiles,
feet in nurses shoes shuffling.
The quiet way a leaf might talk
the symphony of forest,
among bodies that have survived
almost an Olympic event,
the old porn stars and me.
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The Minor Part
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My foot on the gas petal
the flower growing deeper
into the car,
the road, the time
passing beneath my passive
foot.
Toes lay limp, but aware as
bees waiting out a storm.
No more energy than needed
resting on a pin head,
my foot
dripping honey down my ankle
this little piggy
checked into a Zen center
and never came home,
taking me away from
here in a blooming of
machine, foot, and man
playing out my minor part.
