Sunday, April 2, 2017

The Writer (a flash fiction recovered from an elderly notebook)

The writer doesn’t feel that she’s written her masterpiece yet. This is the best possible state of affairs. She actually fears writing the best thing that she’ll ever write for it might ruin her ability to push on into the search for the best writing she can do. For her life has come to revolve around this search.
            Everything that’s ever happened to her, both the good things and the bad, have helped. Every door that’s ever closed, shutting her out of something that she loved, has opened new possibilities of composition. Every good thing that’s ever happened to her has also helped by sustaining hope in a hopeless world too tired to give a shit about its own survival.
            Perhaps she will be one of those writers who pounds away at a typewriter or keyboard for years and years, writing works that never quite live up to her precocious talent and early promise. Perhaps this failure will be her greatest triumph: she will have no babies to kill, no early masterpiece to overcome when despair and alcoholism engulf her later middle age.
            Maybe she’s already written the best thing she’ll ever write but failed to notice. Distracted by the words, she just goes on composing, slashing, hyphenating, and shuffling them into new combinations. Probably being formed into a masterpiece isn’t in their best interest either.

San Francisco


Saturday, January 21, 2017


The day the fascists took Wash-
ington, it was night
in Rome, where I hid
in a rented house in Tras-
tevere, certain rooms locked—
because I could never afford
it all. I ran into Rosanna
,a good egg, and we didn’t speak
of the end of the world as the hope
,fighting against all odds for eight
complacent years, took two steps
back in five minutes. For
“No man’s fuck is holy
because man’s work is most war.”

                        Is good really so relative
its works can be blown away
in an instant in the winds of wrong?

                        I guess wrong knows
all the tricks—from open carry
to concealed weapon.

                        And right
is the bells ringing across Rome
this morning, signaling the loss
,again, of a good man gone down.


Thursday, November 24, 2016

"The Scrovegni damnation"

The Scrovegni damnation
suspended, the chapel
I will not see this morning;
crisp, fall, Padovan
foschia and revolution.
A kneeling dog
Before the museum.
Religion of the elite
who keep churches
as churches
once kept relics.
“Boys keep swingin’,
boys always work it out.”

Kidnapped that girl
because her father
,a Vatican official,
who, no doubt,
don’t give a shit
about this Roman amphitheater,
but did something nasty
to somebody...

power we do things
and consequences
fall on women
                        we conceive
of as other, as ours, as
a social commodity.
The Scrovegni loaned

and we paid interest
at the Vatican bank
in blood.


Thursday, October 6, 2016

Once a month we host an Open Mic here in Florence at the Hostel Tasso. Last night I got Nadia Koski and Marcello from Sushi Rain to help me with out with an old love poem of a sort.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Another cool, gray San Francisco day
,July, toward the end of the world.

I will never see clearly again
except through glass. I’ll

walk ‘til my legs give out, I suppose,
looking hard at the outside of things.

Love will be my mantra
‘gainst all this American suspicion, hate,

and self-repression. By tomorrow
you’ll have forgotten you ever read this

but I’ll remember that you did.
I’m the archivist of nothing in particular.

July, 5th, 2016
San Francisco

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

San Francisco II

Although it’s all visually familiar
the city only
                        feels like home
In the Tenderloin.

                                    Leavenworth St.’s “got
that home beat,” that
Je ne sais quoi

                        on the edge
of desperation. Transsexual
with a laptop on the sidewalk
purse open: smokes, blankets,
and that smell bathrooms
                                                were built
to neutralize.

                        Sometimes places
are hard to get to because
they’re even harder to get out of.

This lowlife
                                    the camaraderie
                                    of abject survival. After all,

smiles are brighter
                                    your suburban misery,
                                    Mr. Jones—

where it all happens without you
and my head is the only
since all the places it carries around
only bring me home 
to the cool, gray city
                                                of love.

June, 2016
San Francisco