My tree
with
greenery
unfoldes.
Un-sheep.
Un-shepherds in their dotage,
driven to sudden refusal by the appearance of
election-year Valentines slid into my cell.
(But careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy
is on fire.
Like our hats are.
Which we remove & hold before
our chests when we bow our
smoking heads in greeting.)





(The group poem from our last open mic.)

flying embers


Coming back to work late Monday afternoon after a dentist appointment, I suddenly had to see how it would feel in Ladera Ranch. (I'd met the place a few months before and been compelled by the contrast between the harshness of its environment, and the paradisical hype.) I took Antonio Parkway, but once I was there was led north by the smoke.

Antonio ends at sort of a deadend, at Avenida de las Flores. At least 100 people who felt the same as me had gathered there to park, get out and look at the afternoon flames.

Everyone had their cellphones aimed at the fire. They were taking pictures of it. It occurred to me this might be something Everyone Has Done For Thousands Of Years. I wanted to, too, but had no camera or cellphone around.

For some reason the porn star vibe of today's cool people seemed especially pronounced there, and touchingly inadequate.

...the deeply mixed and fallible indeterminacy of motivation that has and always will characterize the fundamental state of human affairs...




That's a line in a poem by James Kelly, who read it at Our Little Open Mic today.


I thought it was kinda cool.

I learned something from this explanation of Beat couched in an explanation of "neo-Beat".

I've never been able to explain the whole Beat thing, myself. Maybe even to believe it was an actual something, with borders enough for an explanation.

I appreciate this guy's effort. But if there really is such a thing as beat, I think "neo" is premature. I'd wager a lot of folks are just, still, fucking beat.

Okayyyyy...


I'M HERE, NOW!

We were lying on the couch outside today.

It's a trailer couch, also a pullout bed. I've slept on it a lot this summer, and bought a mosquito net for it a couple of weeks ago.

[Have you ever slept under one? I recommend them even if you have no mosquitos. If it's been too long since you were in a fairy tale, sleeping under a mosquito net will deliver you back.]

I had the couch pulled out last winter. Things were so sad here then. A worldwide desk, the Kenny Howes Memorial Desk in fact, went in its place. (When he heard it called that, he said you call something that when someone's dead. But then he went and died in my life, of his own will. So, maybe it's right.)


Anyway, I looked over my sun-bedraggled plants from the couch today, and felt bad.

Cause it's the garden of someone who isn't really here.


I want to change that.

The hospital I work at emails me an inspirational message every morning.

I liked today's. They said it was from an old folk song.


Be kind to your parents, though they might not deserve it.
Remember that "parents" is a difficult stage of life.
They’re apt to be nervous, and over excited,
Confused by the daily storm and strife.
Remember, though it seems hard I know,
That parents were children long ago.

Excuse me, but I just have to ask.


What the hell is everybody doing in just one place?


Among other things, it doesn't make evolutionary sense (well, assuming "evolution" actually describes something).


Wouldn't we be much more successful survivors and/or reproducers if we could be in more than one place at once?




Get back to me on that why don't you.

Hidden Water



A girl was in a wheelchair on her porch
And wasps were swarming in the cornice

She had just washed her hair
When she took it down she combed it

She could see
Just like I could

The one star under the rafter
Quivering like a knife in the creek

She was thin
And she made me think

Of music singing to itself
Like someone putting a dulcimer in a case

And walking off with a stranger
To lie down and drink in the dark






by Frank Stanford

Sometimes I know people's motivations right away. Usually with strangers.

But in relationships, I can become sort of like Mister Magoo. I just don't have the clearest vision, sometimes, with people I love.

Great ability to see things I want to, though.

Like M.M., I'm probably only here by constant, unnoticed coincidence/miracles. Today one was humblingly clear.

I have a kind of seeing eye dog (?), that I don't deserve, in my friends. I got some solid counsel last night that really nosed my diapered tush away from the deep end.

And I'm noticing some stuff.

I want to be an artist. And in my world that takes self-confidence. Not in front of a crowd or whatever. But I mean, when I write, I need to believe I have some basic integrity, or I'm not all there to have fun with words. Some of my energy, somewhere, is hung up back wherever integrity slipped.

For me, part of integrity is treating living...entities well, and doing what you can to keep harm from coming to them.

By "well" I don't necessarily mean all niceynice. Some medicine tastes bad. The kind my friend gave me last night did. But there's a difference between bad-tasting medicine and, like, unnecessary surgery just to get someone's fucking money.

The thing is, I have to admit and live, now, that "living entities" includes myself. Integrity also means keeping harm from being done to me.

That's very easy to say and may be very hard to live but I'm going to try.

Catch The Light


Until I turn pink and transparent,
I will eat this lovely magenta vegetable.
How could I resist such a flamboyant,
pickled and extroverted root
that turns scarlet everything it touches?
But me, I am just a plain old turnip
someone pulled from the ground.
I try to shake off this clumpy fortress of dirt
that clings, leftover from some bygone era
and I’ve only just lately noticed that
I still haven’t washed myself off,
that I am afraid to go near water,
afraid to let anyone see my purple striped skin.
That is why I have been devouring so many beets.
I think maybe one morning without realizing it,
I will walk by the sliding glass door
as the sun shines through me
and like pink stained glass you will see everything
inside me that I haven’t been able to say.






Clover, Red Ants, Wooden Tables


Danilo watches winged insects sit on his skin
and he rubs dirt from gopher mounds into his pores.
He can make himself turn green from the grass,
he says, “Come on, let’s try it!”

I warn him about the cactus on the slope because
at five years of age, it is as if he has never rolled
down a hill or had a rock stuck in his shoe.
He jumps from bench to bench as birds
twitter above in the oak trees.

I thought he’d never walk again after his doctor
told me I was in denial, but the doctor was wrong, dead wrong.
All I wanted was to get back to this place again
and here we are. We spin Frisbees up to the sun,
toss sticks and bones into the air like voices
that call down from the mountain.

There are clover and red ants here, wooden
tables with names and years carved in them.
Danilo’s little legs no longer tremble, they sing
more and more in tune with the music.

He throws a rock at a metal trash can,
it clangs and bangs. The call of a dove beats out
and fades away on a wind that brushes us,
a wind that rustles through yellow flowers and tall weeds.

He falls lightly like a leaf sprawled under the sky.
“No, no!” he says dramatically, “I can’t do it,”
but he is stronger now, he gets up again, no help.
His little legs re-sprouted from some tulip bulb
planted long ago. It is Spring and my boy is back.






These are by the glorious Gabrielle Mittelbach. Please come hear her read more at Our Little Open Mike Friday, May 25 at 9 a.m. at the Starbucks at 24100 El Toro Road in Laguna Woods. Wuhu

Oh my gosh.

Somehow, last week, I was introduced to a charming, perceptive, extroverted, articulate person who wants to be part of this nutty morning Leisure World open mike thing. (She'd do the talking and I'd do the setup and publicity, it'd be perfect.)

The cafe's expressed willingness.

We're going to a short story writing class at LW tomorrow afternoon to see if anyone there would be into showing up to it to read.


Oh my gosh.

We might actually have an open mike, at the Starbucks outside Leisure World, Friday mornings at 9!

Oh my gosh.

We're thinking about starting the last Friday of May.

Oh my gosh.




And can I just say, thank God for extroverts

I can't see you, but I know you're here. I feel it. You've been hanging around since I got here. I wish I could see your face. Just look into your eyes and tell you how good it is to be here. Just to touch something. See, that's cold. I feel good. Or here, to smoke. Have coffee. And if you do it together, it's fantastic. Or, to draw. You know, you take a pencil and you make a dark line, and then you make a light line, and together it's a good line. Or when your hands are cold, you rub them together. See, that's good. That feels good. There are so many good things. But you're not here. I'm here. I wish you were here. I wish you could talk to me. Because I'm a friend. Companero.














words from wings of desire pic by sarah conner

Dearest Faker


Right now I'm looking at your card,
come flecked with several different inks.
Mail always ends up slightly marred;
the postal system's full of kinks.


And, today, I lightly snapped
the mediocre notion
that everything's important,
once it's blown across the ocean.

I am a very weird person.

Very weak and very strong at the same time.

Very-ness might be the best part about me.

Not strength or weakness, though, who cares about them

Hey...on the off chance that you ever saved or copied anything from one of my blogs, and it happened to be

1) about driving from California across Wyoming and into South Dakota in 1993, or

2) about Dr. Tom Shaver/Orange County Saferides

...could you possibly send it to me at magi81@hotmail.com?


Thank you!

My car's running!

It's so superduper!

I've stayed the last few weekends in L.A., at my brother's in Highland Park, and then ex-sister-in-law's in Los Feliz (though we've decided to just be sisters and get it over with).

I love L.A. more and more. Its improvisational driving remains! And one of the parts that used to bug me is now one of my favorite parts.

It is the people who come there following a dream.

To be bugged by them wasn't even a real thing of my own, but a crappy inheritance from my father (a transplant himself).

It's taken awhile to figure this out, but.

Those people are right!

Eh mehh gehhhhh!!!!!


I just asked the manager of the Leisure World Starbucks if she'd be open to having a morning open mike there, and SHE SAID YES!!!!!!????!!!!



Okokokokokokok

The first thing I overheard in line at the extremely busy Leisure World Starbucks this morning was how some guy's brother-in-law worked as a poll watcher for years and learned firsthand how many dead people come out to vote. The next guy said the Kennedy-Nixon race was won by dead people.

The tone these things were said in is hard to explain. Humorous compassion for the dead? Trying hard not to be one of them? And to make it look easy?

Nah...not quite.

If nothing else, the morning regulars at the Leisure World Starbucks show the fuck up. I sense they'd call any other way of being candyass, college kid, something like that.

If anyone's wondering where the next Orange County open mike should be, this is it. (And it should be a morning one.)

This is actually a really good idea. Please, someone, take it.

Last year around this time I started kind of feeling...roses.

A children's theater in La Habra was doing "The Little Prince," and I was thinking about trying out for the part of the rose. I bought a rose bush, and asked people to call me Rose. I didn't end up trying out for the play (it was too far away without a car), but the name stuck.

The rosebush didn't do very well. I'd been good with plants before, but not last year. Plus I couldn't get the watering right, it was always too much or too little. Holes spread through the leaves and the flowers got moldy.

By last month it really seemed dead. The orange hips looked like accusing birdheads. Everything else'd fallen off.

A couple weeks ago, though, for the fun of it, I dug a hole in the ground between the shed and the fence, and a neighbor helped me transplant the rosebush into it. (A tough old bird. I offered him gloves but he said that'd take the fun out of it.) We protected it from the lawnmowers a yard or so around with a nifty kneehigh fencey thing.

Now it's budding, all over. Much lusher and more confident-looking than I remember from last year.

It reminds me of a children's song my dad wrote a few years ago about the springtime. There's a line that goes, winter's not that strong

All my life I’ve been interested in other people’s stories. I’ve wanted to know them, understand them, feel them. When I grew up and got into politics, I always felt the main point of my work was to give people the chance to have better stories.

I just heard Bill Clinton say that in his biography on cd.

It's so weird...I had that sense, while Clinton was president. And that that might be one of the few things a president honorably and uniquely (as opposed to the financial powers controlling the role) could do for his or her country. To hear him confirm it, wow.

Damn it, Lois, I said it in 1997, and I'll say it again. Al Gore is a sacred text from the 36th century!

Today's crush is on Louie Armstrong music!




Brittleness, weakness, selfishness and plans, quietly take their leave and go.

I hope to have such strong arms someday. I think you have to do a lot of exercises!

Sometimes the answer is Louis Armstrong.



Like, now!

messy room



in my trailer, over here,
falling asleep,
but also
in your bed
(you know?)

a fast-talking dj turned down very low,
a box of macaroni, a shadow,
my only door opened by itself
when you walked past,
maybe that’s why

in the corner a blanket,
a lamp with no bulb,
record player the same age as you,
a check for six dollars,
comb with your snarls,
for me it wasn’t fake for me it was real

bootprint on the pillow,
a tape all tangled up,
rubber soul out of its jacket on the carpet

radio, rain, a duffelbag
from the war with your dad’s name
and stain, aw, just out of practice, your bed,
the light blue wall near your door

I’m in love with a paper towel. I’d know her fall to the floor anywhere. The origami of her crush in my hand. The time it takes her to get damp and useless. Her patience, alone by the trash. Not one to cause mischief there, or, worse, to feign pathos. No, she just...is. More vulnerable than the most halting, circuitous, unrequited loveletter. Serrated at sexy, evil angles. And she'll do her job if she has to. Built in. Now I have to figure out how to stay in touch with her. We lead such different lives. And she might not even be interested in me. What do I know? I’m so naïve. I certainly don’t know what other people do alone in the bathroom. Not like her.

Still reading "The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas" (the lady of hash brownie legend), by Gertrude Stein. The funny thing is, every time I open it up, my face goes into this solid, against-my-will smile, as if I'm on Starship 2000 at the fair, or indeed eating a hash brownie. There is something so Gumptious about it. Also Delighted, Simple, Informative, Chatty and Grand.

Tonight, one of my old supervisors at the bookstore sold me a perfect-condition 1934 first edition of "Portraits and Prayers" by Ms. Stein for $125, when it normally goes for $600, and is letting me pay it in three installments. He found it at a library sale for a dollar or something.

I thought that was quite good.

When I lived in Topanga Canyon I would sometimes stop at the Vons on PCH between Malibu and Topanga going home from work. It was usually dark by then and often foggy. The elderly black evening security guard there always nodded when he saw me. I enjoyed seeing him as sort of a mythic figure in the fog and thinking he must have a lot of stories.

One night we spoke. He started being mythic right away. He'd been a merchant marine in the 1960s, and collected military ocean lore, strange sightings, inexplicable seafaring events. He said the water lore of any people always starts in its military. That the first mermaid sightings were recorded by Roman military ships off the coast of Wales. I believed him

Going to California


It’s a windy night with fireflies
and I’m taking apart a guitar
and my sisters are upstairs fighting
about a brush. Sixteen lemons
have fallen since you were here.
I should send you one
so you can eat it in front of somebody
and impress him. (That is meant to be a joke.)


One thing you should know
is that you have extremely beautiful hair.
Those guys had been partying
too heavily for their own well-being
and were about to fall asleep.
They were more dreaming than seeing.
Add to this the fact that they
are not artistically creative.
I feel sorry for them, more than anything else.


Well you haven’t written yet.
That’s cool. I know how it is
when you don’t feel like writing a letter.
You probably have more significant things
to think about, like school.
Could you send me your phone number again?
Unfortunately, Jennifer thought it was a receipt
and threw it away.


Well I’m back and look
you’ve driven me to drink.
I’m mailing this right after it’s finished
so please make some allowances.
I had a dream about you last night.
Listen I wish you would come back sometime.
They put up a whole new building
for Maeder and those assholes.
You wouldn’t even have to see them.

Jimi Hendrix Subaru Commercial Insight



I don't know how you're going to feel about this, but I just found out that it has been the 1950s since around 1908. And that it's going to continue to be the 1950s (get this) until there are no more women. And no more men.

Love I believe in you, even if you still aren't here,
and it seems unlikely you'll think to look for me
in Costa Mesa under the freeway
behind Baja Fresh.


But I can't go to St. Petersburg for you now,
or Cape Christie or New York City or Deadwood.
I think my fate is here, with the plants
that're supposed to make it seem like paradise.


I talked with a marble stand
of pink and purple pansies
at the southern valet gate to Fashion Island today.


One said that after the shock of the first season,
they and the millions of others like them
grow embarrassed.


That these feelings keep humans from relaxing
on corporate park lawns.


Another said they know how much water
they steal, and just where that puts them.
That they're embarrassed to face the natural world,
when it is,
and that, partly because of them,
there's so little left here to face.


In their embarrassment they've become terribly self-absorbed.


They know that, too.


And truly, they're afraid.
They know their princess colors are no match for the hawks,
vultures, spiders, owls, coyotes,
snakes and red ants.


It was different where they came from.


And, as I turned to leave,
behind a family running to the movies,


one said they're like a lot of the early white settlers
in these ways,


for whom it will take awhile
to become people again,


if they ever do.

One gray, sticky summer afternoon in 1992, the security guard was driving home from the gym and saw a two-toned green-and-turquoise sedan in the middle of the street. Its hood and all four doors were open.

This was when he was still a police officer. It was his day off, but he always carried his gun and radio. He stopped, got out and looked the car over. It looked abandoned. He called in and started running a report from the license plates.

Toward the end of the call he put his foot on the front fender, just to kind of rest it there. He took it off and WHOOOOSH

a wide huffing fire uncoiled ten feet tall.

He turned, shielding his face with his right arm, and fell on his butt. He felt so hot he thought he was on fire, and ran to a sprinkler whipping some front yard. He doused himself, took off his tank top and wrapped his right arm in it. A kid came up to him.

It turned out he hadn't actually been on fire, but the boy said

you're fucked up man

because his face, arm and the side of his torso were burned almost as bad from having been near the fire as they would've been, in it.

He drove himself to the hospital and was admitted right away. The ER nurses and his department had a good relationship because his guys also did security for their floor. His right arm was shaking but the nurses said that was normal. They gave him a shot for pain in the butt and reminded him of having seen his naked bottom for the next few weeks.

Whoever planted the explosive in the radiator did it wrong, they made the blast go upward instead of out or in. The angle of the hood rolled the flame somewhat toward him, but still that was what saved his life they said.

The way he told it, it seemed like he'd come through pretty well. I couldn't see any scars on his face or arm, and it sounded like the wind had died down.

When I knew him a little better he told me about losing his wife and children in a house fire five years later. The ways he talked about the two fires (I mean, the fire part of the fires) were very different. He barely described the one that took his family at all.

You will find that charity
Is a heavy burden to carry
Heavier than a bowl of soup
And the full basket.


But you will keep your gentleness
And your smile.


It is not enough to give soup
And bread
This the rich can do.


You are the servant of the poor,
Always smiling
And always good humoured.
They are your masters,
(Terribly sensitive) and exacting
masters
You will soon see.


The uglier and dirtier they will be,
The more unjust and insulting,
The more love you must give them.


It is only for your love alone
That the poor will forgive you
The bread you give to them.







by St. Vincent de Paul

Capricorn



She asked a flower
how to live forever.


And the flower told her.


Then she slowly asked,


"...so, why don't...
some flowers...
live...forever, if they can?"


The flower said,
"You sense that question trespasses.
You feel like a seductress
with something at stake.


It's called propriety, my dear.
Yes, it comes this way, too.


And, as to your question, well,
that's why."