Nothing Bundt Cakes

a franchise called
“Nothing Bundt Cakes”
is opening up on
Lancaster Avenue
I drive by it each morning
on the way to work
striped blue window stickers
and a sunflower in the logo
Since the “bundt” isn’t
really a “but”
I like to picture them selling
empty boxes

Mary’s Hide & SLEEP

I didn’t have time to decide how I feel about everything 

On this flight 

It’s good to decide how to feel before going home

I was too exhausted but couldn’t get comfortable 

Now we’re descending slowly over the black and yellow SF night

opaque brownish gray clouds hang over the soft gold grid

thick like there’s smoke mixed in with the salty bay air

I think of medieval humors 

Are we passing through clouds or mountains

Lucia Berlin’s stories really hit the nail on the head 

in their portrayal of the East Bay 

As magical and beautiful, but filthy too

The majesty of mountains surrounding the city

Where light pollution seems to hover at night like

This is just the way it is 

The walking for miles 

Playing the game of trying to make it to the next stop before the bus shows up 

How the bus never shows up if you sit there waiting

Having serious, incoherent conversations 

with people who sleep on benches

Being a teen here

I would entertain all kinds of nonsense 

in hopes of finding magicmysterytruth

So scared of the normal 

*

In the afternoon we drive up the coast

Joe’s Cafe in script 

PET ARCADE

Mary’s Hide & SLEEP

The Mt. Tam Motel

freeway-side businesses unchanged since the ‘50s and the signs

Still vibrant rust red

Hide & SLEEP ... !?

I search my head 

for what I dreamt about last night

On the cold air mattress  

as we drive up to the California country cowboy beach towns

Point Reyes, Inverness 

heart pangs

The dusty young surfer at the restaurant on Tomales Bay

Eating alone at the bar

dusty blue coat and brown slip on boots

curly dark hair 

smiling softly to himself

the peaceful twinkle eyes of someone battered by the ocean

just a timeless dharma bum

everything about this mode

soft and open 

*

Step mom always serving, pouring, inviting

The two of us drink wine in the kitchen

I feel a twinge in my stomach

What price to pay for this generosity

Pinch me?

I look at the cut on my left thumb

New cells tightening around what was a crescent shaped slice

When I feel particularly depressed 

the way the body heals is reassuring

If my cells can regenerate so quickly and completely

Surely my thoughts can too

June 2018

this old song reminds me of my friend
because she can sing like that
someone told me that the past is gone
and argued for the future in a way
that made me gag 
and this week everyone is killing 
themselves because of it and
it's no mystery to me

smiles like lil hooks

bed pet:

we were staying at his house

but he was always gone

his room was filled with drawings

bugs bunny, crosshairs, self portraits

walking down the long hallway to our room

a doorway off the hall revealed a humongous woman

barely fitting in the building

like Alice in Wonderland

she was wearing an anime print leotard

and the room was foggy and lit with a blue light

sleeping in an awkward child's pose

because she barely fit in the house

Ant Ranch

I wake up and

we hang out

in my house like

a piece of swiss cheese

I don’t blame them

for finding the holes

I take pictures

of them eating

a cough drop or

a different dead bug

I think they love June

and July, and May

and I'm obsessed
with them all summer
killing them
with one finger

New poem for Jamie

I can’t think of one

are there only so many words

for someone who’s done living no

I am naming all sorts of things

after you though

writing september spring into

the best blank spaces I can find

what else

was on your wall

my poem, you said

that makes you seem so serious

but I bet it was stuck with tape

soup or love

there are a few places to be

in a day and it’s a phone

the day is a phone

the garden is a moment

seldom chosen, the garden

is anything that isn’t a phone like

soup or love and that

could never be a day

staring at the pink wall

my vision filter is

water damage

the eyeballs lament

those little lines

the brain falls around, banging

it’s coiled weight

and it’s night

I fucking like knowing the time

when it's lit up

when its late or early

I used to have a clock

lit by the moon

or something always

making it clear

buy a watch I write

buy a watch I write

the same shit

every day because

I never do it

because a watch would

crowd my grandma’s bracelet

and what better time

piece than the heirloom

get a watch I write tomorrow

into my water damaged

notepad and I actually speak it

but no one sees

these greasy hands on the day

the lavendar on my feet

time could be the garden

if you hate yourself right now

or later

try kissing the inside of your wrist