First of all want to thank my connect

Sugar tits is a lioness
she sees in the mirror a terrible fish
clothes can't be removed fast enough
her eyes closed like an English class
Elsewhere but paying enough attention
to fake it when asked

I'm told without asking she doesn't fuck in the morning
Coffee would be nice
about that
I don't think
we should
be too close, you know?

Surprise invitation to a noontime gala
don't come back until you're suited and booted
ABBA records between the three of us
the special gift of anal sex
what did I think the tie was for
Knowing me, knowing you (ah-hah)
Pharrell story
Bones in her closet

Anna Karina

I notice my smegma
what was McCain thinking?
Mooseburger Mom
Inuit investigator
Nobody reads my spreadsheet
Feed me
Areva, Lipps Inc.
talk about it
talk about it
talk about
Moving

Dear Rukiya Shabazz

I love you.

I miss San Francisco, R. Brautigan (WHO WROTE THESE THINGS)

THE OLD BUS

I do what everybody else does: I live in San Francisco. Sometimes I am forced by Mother Nature to take the bus. Yesterday was an example. I wanted to get some place beyond the duty of my legs, far out on Clay Street, so I waited for a bus.

It was not a hardship but a nice warm autumn day and fiercely clear. An old woman waited, too. Nothing unusual about that, as they say. She had a large purse and white gloves that fit her hands like the skins of vegetables.

A Chinese fellow came by on the back of a motorcycle. It startled me. I had just never thought about the Chinese riding motorcycles before. Sometimes reality is an awfully close fit like the vegetable skins on that old womans hands.

I was glad when the bus came. There is certain happiness sighted when your bus comes along. It is of course a small specialized form of happiness and will never be a great thing.

I let the old woman get on first and trailed behind in classic medieval tradition with cantle floors following me onto the bus.

I dropped in my fifteen cents, got my usual transfer, even though I did not need one. I always get a transfer. It gives me something to do with my hands while I am riding the bus. I need activity.

I sat down and looked the bus over to see who was there, and it took me about a minute to realize that there was something very wrong with that bus, and it took the other people about the same period to realize that there was something very wrong with the bus, and the thing that was wrong was me.

I was young. Everybody else, about nineteen of them, were men and women in their sixties, seventies and eighties, and I only in my twenties. They stared at me and I stared at them. We mere all embarrassed and uncomfortable.

How had this happened? Why were we suddenly the players in this cruel fate and could not take our eyes off one another?

A man about seventy-eight began to clutched desperately at the lapel of his coat. A woman maybe sixty-three began to filter her hands, finger by finger through a white handkerchief.

I felt terrible to remind them of their lost youth, their passage through slender years in such a cruel and unusual manner. Why were we tossed this way together as if we were nothing but a weird salad served on the seats of a God-damn bus?

I got off the bus at the next possibility. Everybody was glad to see me go and none of them were more glad than I.

I stood there and watched after the bus, its strange cargo now secure, growing distant in the journey of time until the bus was gone from sight.

DONNER PARTY

Forsaken, Fucking in the cold

Eating each other, lost

Runny Noses,

Complaining all the time

Like so many

People

That we know

First Day Off

NYT has pictures up of suburban overreach in Merced. The retraction this time reflects the sunken grandeur of American ambition; lawns and security. Detroit's overreach is of a different era. Skyhugging Gothic masterpieces awaiting respect and vision, enclosed in barbed wire skirts like a bad metaphor for the city itself. Tyrone's House.

GDP goes up when we burn more gasoline in traffic. The last room in the Motown Museum tour is the garage studio in which every song from the label was recorded from 1959 to 1972. The guide got sassy when asked about a small white piano a tie wearing churchgoer insisted used to sit in the corner. He said it's probably in the basement somewhere, he doesn't know. Barry Gordon is straight chillin' in Miami. Rejected was Thomas Jefferson's idea for the seal of the United States: Hercules standing before either the flowery path of self indulgence or the rocky uphill path of public service. The Sun Belt continues to prosper, and the tour guide is fine so long as he can stick to the script.

The first room has the watercolor from which Innvervisions got it's cover. We pause and make time for the Europeans to translate what was just said, encourage them especially to hit the gift shop, and notice the diamond earrings sported by their menfolk. I leave the place desperate for an oldies station, catch the last thirty seconds of "Everyday People" and drum ballisticly into my steering wheel. Uplifting elation for the length of the street, dozens of homeless lined up bare witness, kneeling as they were in front of the old General Motors research building, saved from the fate of so much of Detroit's glory only because the state now operates out of it.

Hello Jesus. Jesus children. Jesus loves you, Jesus children. Hello children Jesus loves you of America.