A Thousand Stations

There could be a thousand stations

or there could be none, but in the

coyote-call high lonely concrete of

our midwest-to-left-coast always midnight

multiple night ramble

in our bad old Galaxy 500

with its 340-odd cubic inches of V8 vibrating

all the way out to the Summer constellations,

she would still be winding the tuner

up and down across the static,

her heading resting on my right thigh,

her feet hanging out

the passenger-side window,

a cigarette or a joint in her hand

as it twisted the knob, or

pushed some button.


She just wasn’t one to let anything alone,

and luckily, that included me.


Her obsession began just east of

Branson Missouri and continued

through Salt Lake City and Reno

and San Francisco in the California mist,

and on through Yosemite,

through the eternal, surreal, rows

of avocado trees in the inland valley,

through the San Fernando suburbs

of the City of Angels;

continued until we parked

on Canal Street in Venice,

and left the car for the ocean,

walking across the Speedway,

out onto the beach and the sand…


And even then,

even without a radio,

she was still

twisting knobs and

pushing buttons – only

it was me she was playing with.


I understood:

she had something

that needed to be heard –

something she couldn’t bear to say.


Instead, she would scan

the entire electromagnetic spectrum

and all its inhabitants

for the rest of her life,

looking for someone

to say it for her…


From my 2010 pen journal.

How many times did I launch myself (with and without companions) into the weird world of the highways? Driving off in some clunker of a car with too little money and too little preparation, looking for adventure, or at least and end to ennui…

I feel I’ve spent most of my life like that – in stark contrast to my recent pedestrian mode.

My current automobile-free state is making me a little wistful, I think…


Goodnight Jane

Jane dancing in yellow

evening light


a paper of pins in her hand


and o so seldom

does Jane laugh

but laugh she does


her usual personality

can be likened to that of a mantis




and o so practical

but tonight

the gates of Magic have swung open

perhaps for moments only

her heart’s grief is forgot

practical surrenders and whimsical

storms and overruns her every redoubt


and Jane dances and laughs

such a clean sound

in my tiny apartment

the scent of a New York City Spring

in the fresh open-window

damp evening air


we did not know

it was her last Spring ever

she was even then casting off her chains


dancing even so



Goodnight Jane I think now

on a rainsoft night so much

like that night

though I am

differently now alone

and hundreds of miles

distantly from the

old splintered floor

that once flexed and groaned

beneath her dancing feet

I wonder sometimes who

dances there now

goodnight good girl


Her laugh was like a child’s

brave and unconquerable

and she was so deliberately

and cruelly instructed

that it was a miracle

it even once escaped


our love for one another

was a matched set of gloved defiances

together we slapped the face of reality

knowing even as we did

the challenge would of course

be accepted

and that like all humans

we were hopelessly outclassed



I have a single photograph

it is of a Jane I never knew

she would not permit cameras

near her spiky grey-haired self

but once

in a moment of surrender

she gave me this photo

this image

of her much younger self

voluptuous as a handful

of grapes warm

as a cupped breast


I can allow you

to have it

she said


it no longer is true


to all the missing Janes

who still should be here

in yellow rainy evening dancing



goodnight Jane

I miss you



across and beyond

the stiff-walled circle of the Zodiac

past all the stars

is where you dwell

with stardust on your breath



just as she always wanted


Goodbye Jane. From my pen journal for 2010.


Razor Girl


D    G    f#m  em

D    G    f#m  em


em           bm

now, I don't know what these

bm       em

dues are for


I pay them just the

G         f#m Em F#m Em

same. . .


Verse 1:

D               G

the party was a good one.

           f#m             em

there were girls like wild game;

        D                     G

when we met, we said we never met,

      f#m               em

but I knew you just the same. . .

bm                     em

on the road 'neath the sycamores,

bm             G

boarding a jet plane,

f#m                 em

I knew you just the same. . .

f#m                 em

I knew you just the same. . .


Verse 2:

I caught you slipping out of bed

steel in your vein

you were  looking for something

better than that

and you were calling out my name

now, kings of old,

they have known the score

as slaves have known their chains

I knew you just the same. . .

I knew you just the same


Verse 3:


When Time comes walking


up your life,

         f#m                em

you know dying, it ain't no shame


so we go looking for something


better than that

   f#m                 em

go calling the gods by name


now I don't know what these


dues are for

bm                  G

I pay them just the same

f#m                         em

I used to know the rules by heart;

             f#m            em

this used to be my favorite game…


Outro starts with bm 2nd half of verse:

now, I don't know

what these things are for

why love is like a flame

I knew you just the same…..


Classic me tune – as usual, based on a real relationship with a real addict. Why do I attract addicts? Or perhaps the better question is, why am I attracted to them…?

Or maybe we’re all addicts, and I’m just attracted to regular people


Full Green Corn Moon & Raksha Bandan

Full Corn Moon, or sometimes the Corn Moon is said to occur in September, and the full moon in August is called the "Green" Corn Moon. I guess that makes sense. It’s true most of the corn isn’t quite ripe yet.

Another year in which I missed the Perseids meteor shower because of foul weather. Sad, and a little irritating. Why, year after year, do the clouds pile up just before the meteor shower, and stay until the peak days are past?

Today’s full moon also marks Raksha Bandan, the annual celebration of brother-sister commitment. I still have the first Rakhi a woman ever tied round my wrist – a beautiful little green and gold bracelet with long dangly threads and little doodads on the ends that she wove herself.

It wasn’t from my blood-sister, but a sister, nonetheless: Cara gave it to me, years before we were lovers. It occupies a special place in the collage of memories I’ve assembled over the decades. I usually think of this collage as my "girlfriend" mementos, though there are many keepsakes from loved ones who were never girlfriends, and bits and pieces from many lives that intersected my own in striking or unusual ways. It’s really more a cabinet of personal curiosities.

Whatever I call it, in a place of honor in that collection is Cara’s Rakhi, which I wore for a very long time – almost two years after she tied it on. I loved her very much, and couldn’t bear parting with it, even after our lives separated.

For a time – years – I thought I’d never see her again, but then she popped up, very deliberately seeking me out, and we renewed our friendship. After not very long we began a very powerful new relationship, which changed me in big ways.

I showed her the Rakhi she’d given me, after our friendship resumed. She was touched to see I’d kept it… and then magnetically attracted to the rest of the collection, demanding the story of every bit of kitsch, every vial of blood, every bit of lace.

That was an interesting afternoon…


Slog Anniversary

Seven years ago, while coming out of the woods after some days of hiking:

Woke at dawn, had me some coffee, but we’re out of food. That’s okay – it’s only six hours more to wait.


As it turns out, this was the worst weather we’d ever endured on a hike. Also, we had chosen a challenging trail. The combination of the two meant that we were soaked, exhausted, and occasionally in real danger. Every path was turned into a gushing mud- and gravel-filled freshet, and each of the half dozen real streams we crossed was transformed from a tranquil bubbling to a roaring, rock-tumbling, obstacle course, with hundred pound current. Had either of us fallen, it would have been a grave thing, and not just because of sopping wet gear and a danger of hypothermia. We were hiking in extremely rocky terrain, and some of the streambeds closely resembled gorges. It would be likely, in these circumstances, to take some serious bruising from a fall, and not out of the question to break bones or sustain a serious knock on the head, or get driven and wedged by the current into some crevice, and find oneself unable to get out.


But we did it. It’s done, and I’m not sorry; not for doing the hike, and not for seeing the end of it.


Our ride meets us at the trailhead at 1400. We’ll probably pull out of this bivouac around 1215, maybe 1230. Even if it’s very hard slogging on the remaining half mile, we should be able to cover it in an hour or less, so leaving before 1230 is just silly, unless the rain stops. If the rain does stop, it won’t matter as much, but as long as it’s pouring, this leaky tarp (uncomfortable as it may be) is preferable to standing in a downpour in a muddy parking lot, waiting for the kids.


Last night was a rough night for me. It started to rain again around 2200, and hasn’t stopped since. We’ve stayed fairly dry and not too terribly uncomfortable under our tarp, but the longer the rain lasts, the more it picks at the edges of our little haven, and the damper everything gets.


All I’ve had to eat in two days is one peanut butter and honey sandwich and a half a dozen cups of instant tomato soup. Also, I’ve drunk four cups of instant coffee with Swiss Miss chocolate mixed in. Not a very balanced diet. I’ve been taking vitamins – I guess that’s good…


My buddy Mountain tends to romanticize nature, which is how he talks me into these things; he deifies it – wants to cuddle up to it.


At least, he wants to want that. But when we’re out here doing the whole hiking, camping, nature-boy thing, he seems very uncomfortable; I think he prefers his nature in the abstract…


I know I do.


I am not a big fan of this "crawl-around-in-the-bugs-and-weeds" lifestyle. I get impatient with it. While it is frequently beautiful and sometimes dramatic, it is also filled with rot and death and the mindless avidity of insects, which of course reminds me of the pointless avidity of my own existence, with the silent, mindless, eternal scream of death looming nearer and nearer.


Of course, there are also blueberries.


In my experience, blueberries (along with the vivid, unparalleled, exalting reality of my six year old grandniece) defy all but the most hard-core nihilism.


I like blueberries. I ate handfuls of tart, wild, blueberries on yesterday’s hike. As I walked through the bushes, they came free soaked in rain and perfectly ripe. There’s an oblique, brushing technique to stripping blueberries (not raspberries, or blackberries – the thorns will catch you every time on those bushes). It’s a technique familiar to those raised in or near the woods – a way of running your hands over a berry-laden branch just so, so only the ripest berries come loose. The unripe stay in place, for a later visit.


They were very refreshing…


Hiking always puts things in perspective…


A Stranger In Strange Lands

My very last electric day,

and so much on the plate:

a host of little things to do

before it gets too late.


The bags are packed, the letters sent,

the lovers bid adieu;

the bills are all heaved in the trash;

Con Edison? Fuck you.


I’ve lived my whole life just this way,

so these moments aren’t seen;

I’ve always haunted heaps of junk,

and slept on rags between.


I’ve never cared for pretty things

that don’t pack in a trice;

except for memories and books,

I don’t have to think twice.


I’ve never been a citizen,

a resident, a fan…

a solitary traveler,

is what I truly am.


A stranger in strange lands I’ve been,

for half a century;

I’ve camped and squatted everywhere,

from mountains to the sea.


So "home" has ceased to mean a place

it’s feeling; it’s a state;

it’s knowing I am self-contained,

and guiding my own fate.


Seven stanzas of four lines each. Though each stanza can be thought of as a casual heptametric (seven beat) couplet, I’ve divided each heptametric line into two lines – one of four beats and one of three:


ba-badda binga-bang


In each stanza, the three-stressed lines (the ones ending in bang) are (more or less) rhymed.

For reasons best not explicated, I’m particularly proud of the adieu/fuck you rhyme in the second stanza…

This poem is from my 2007 e-journal, just before I left NYC to go live in the back of the woods. I was riding out the security deposits on all my utilities, had crashed all my bank accounts and credit cards, had stopped hanging out in my usual hangouts, switched to a by-the-month burner phone, and was saying my goodbyes every day – to places and people; to the life I’d led for the best part of forty years.

The disruption felt good in many ways, but of course it was all very bittersweet. I knew that what I was really bidding goodbye was myself – or what I’d come to think of as myself, over the course of several decades. I was tearing all that out, root and branch, and making a new life. That’s how I tend to do things – disruptively; totally; when I stopped smoking, it was in a day; when I ended my addiction to heroin it was cold turkey. I’m that way about nearly anything. I fall in love totally, and I totally fall out; when I acquire a new interest it becomes all-consuming and when I abandon an interest, I do so abruptly, and with little hesitation.

The "new life" I was imagining at the time I wrote this poem was inchoate, but I didn’t care about that. I’m not a risk-averse sort, so I had no trouble uprooting my old self without knowing where the new self would land.

It seems I am always on the edge of this sort of disruption. I never really plant myself anywhere, or with anyone. I’m always looking over my shoulder, expecting to see the next catastrophe looming behind me. I’m always waiting for (and excitedly hoping for) the next demolition to begin, so of course I don’t make lots of commitments…

I wonder why I’m like that…


Lefty Day

Today is Lefty Day, which I am pleased to celebrate because that’s me – I’m a lefty.

Of course I didn’t think "left-handed" when I saw the holiday announced on the web – I thought it was a holiday for leftists; you know – people with a particular political persuasion? But then, of course, I figured it out.

But it got me thinking: why isn’t there a holiday for them? The "leftists"? Seems like a kind thing to do – they get so little respect, otherwise…

It also got me to thinking about my own handedness, which has always been a bit of an issue for me – a constant "sinister" awareness of my difference, in positive and negative ways. I have a "handed" subset of my image work, a series of pictures that grotesquely emphasize one or the other hand:

Root Man
Root Man
Flaming Gaspump Man
Flaming Gaspump Man
Fat Fella
Fat Fella
Big Hurtie Hand
Big Hurtie Hand

What a piece of work I am; how noble in reason…



Such ancient things, these knobbed and veined hands,

all ivory and rose with hints of blue;

of all the secret codes in all the lands,

these hands are most hermetically of you.


They dreamt of you; they formed you in my mind;

they looked (as blindly as my loving heart)

into the deep of you, they valentined

the passageways from science into art


with fingertips of cracked and broken sin.

I stole your essence from the air and rain,

condensed the lightning; turned the outside in,

until a thing divine arrived, in pain.


These hands have fastly gone, from young to old:

the consequence of turning lead to gold.


A sonnet in the Shakespearean mode. Rhyme scheme: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG.

I love sonnets. Just enough constraint to force the creative juices to flow, and enough freedom to keep them flowing thereafter. Sonnets often render well at readings, too – the beauty of some structural poems, obvious when viewed in print, is lost when read aloud, but this is not often the case with sonnets.

A poem about the creative process, and its consequences.


Seventy-one Years…

Buh-bye Nagasaki. Seventy-one years ago today.

I suppose people will still be arguing over the legitimacy of nuking these cities for hundreds of years, and I think that’s a good thing.

Of course, a better thing might be if everyone agreed that it sucked in a major way, and that it shouldn’t happen anymore. But we’re talking humans here – that ain’t going to happen…


Long In Tooth

No footprint in my timeless wall of fog,

nor mark of any Cain inside the dream

I dream: as golden scarabs lift a rose

and float it in my Lady’s bath of cream

and mint, my rainbow paradise of eyes

(the consequence of She Who Dwells Within)

is fastened on a green and silver frog

she balances upon her milky palm.


She looks at me, and smiles in delight

to see how hungrily I pay her heed,

and laughing, she invites me to her side,

where I will pass the time in golden light;

in drinking in the joy she cannot hide:

the shimmer of her iridescent bite.


First draft appeared in 2005, a fairly mature chunk – eight lines of iambic pentameter, very similar to the initial eight lines of the current version.

Although this is fourteen lines of iambic pentameter, it is only casually rhymed and is at best a pseudo-sonnet; not the real thing.

That could change.

This is a personally esoteric poem, and probably doesn’t deserve explanation; nevertheless:

Think of a binding spell,

and all the world in it,

then think of a caster

enchanted enough to spin it.


Think of the web

the world insists we weave,

and then think of us all as flies

too enthralled to leave…


You really don’t need to understand this.