lots of people in
the sun, summer shoes
and summer hats.

lots of noise and
falls and splats…
summer flies and
summer brats.

here’s a boy who’s
lost in games… ignorant,

in days of yore
and spanish seas…

parents shoving him
to be an empire soldier man
in endless victory.

living in his sand soft
world, who could he kill?
sandman guns
and sandman thrills.



i was wondering about
avalanches giving and
like a father who is
not, like a rain
that dries heaven.

maybe i see that
chidren aren’t cattle.
that our parents didn’t need us.

maybe my wondering isn’t like
wishing, like a dream might
make fathers;
like a snow makes
white rainbows.



black river

mostly, i’m ignoring my hand inside
his hand. such composure, i felt
at least like the mona sphynx.

his concerning,
his yearning,
for a simpler done times
when he’d mellow
in the meadow, by the
black river pines.

mostly. the compressed hand between
his own. such affection, in
pats, like butter on toast.



you’d have thought the days

frisco hippies 67

you’d have thought the days,
if you used that phrase, which you
didn’t. cause thought is action and now is
the future.

you pretended, i did, that i was the start of

we took off our clothes when we could, we
danced. we made colors when there were only
tinted grays. we educated.

somewhere, there’s still a music we engendered,
running around on mt. diablo, brighter than a
thousand cheap woodstocks.

you ran naked on the beach, and nike wept for every
dollar it lost. you ate brown rice and macdonald’s fumed at
hippies and fried a dead fish for its health.

you wandered alien on the streets of frisco, berkeley, NYC and
didn’t know there was that much money in us, i mean, head
shops and groovy were liberated and there i was, broke and needing
a cigarette.

ginsberg told you that you write like a sissy. alan watts told you to
come back when you had money. gary snyder now talks story from the
telephone book to keep an audience. fuck all that, it’s not your life.

the world turns on its axis, it sometimes shifts. i look inside before i
paint my own shadow. the day has come, i only
write what i know. did i trick you right?

these gray lights over casper


these gray lights over casper drape
over tiny white flecks of water
thrown over the secret riverfall of
time has no place.
and, here we die,
lay and wait for the sky to open.

clown light scrub the afterday of
many sorrows. wash our
fantasies. bright smile our

dream world of
paper floors and hollow candies. make it glow.

let love go and i’ll be a
whisper in the
music on a distant clear blue sky of
many stars, infinite blue,

stars seek their wonders inside a
tide of ice and shadows. take me there.






showed us we could
think like one, one person,
to build your yangsee dam,
your pyramid,
your happy society
as you told them.

you protected them from
their animal nature,
told them biology was
dead, that they don’t need
to think or question.

your woman is inferior,
because she doesn’t get
with the plans exactly,
wants you to spend more
time with your son,
who is a nine year
old dope addict. if he
would get with the
plan, you could talk with

when all them, they,
get un-sync’d and want your
job, i like that look you
had when they, you didn’t
read the last chapter of
messiah am i.


mill worker 5 crop.jpg

spilled my coffee,
knocked it over, coffee all
over, spreading like some disease,
like dementia of a stupid old

pretentious old man, stealing everyone’s
ideas of fine and true — mongrel dog old
man, growing up chicken-shit trailer trash stupid,
everyone’s better than me. like, as if i could learn
how to be better than me.

gum-crack architecture — the way it’s arranged,
the way it’s balanced between lazy and
practical, my keyboard’s woodboard is now
dripping cold coffee on my knee,
and i’m wiping my knee with this
old underwhite
wear, cause i’m too lazy and stupid and
white trash to
use a hanky… speaking of, why am i fucking
whining like a sissy?

making a new cup of coffee,
making the thought in my head that
my board is fine as it is…
making in my mind the reality that
that cold drip was kind of trippy,
like water dripping off green moss on
some creek mountain side in oregon.

holding in my mind that i’m
connected with some kind of
touch-is-infinite, and energy is
out of my hed, my dik, my finger tips down
inside my hart with so much love.