wrote a short film idea once
about a bike messenger
who, on a trip to a financial disctrict tower
stopped on every floor
and laced the coffee pots
w/LSD 25.

a massive undertaking
i know
but then things
began to grow
--the windows wouldn't open
so that much was safe
but the computers were on
and consciousness/conscience flowing
things changed dramatically

people did things they only thought about
dreamed about
or never contemplated before

there were orgies instead of conference meetings
and stock traders told the truth


remember Hereclitus:
'you can never step in the same river twice.'

life is change
and from the moment of conception

as in life
is more pleasurable
when you're not fighting waves
but rather
carving them
using their energy
as best you can
to get from one spot
to another.


went mtn biking the other weekend
from harper's ferry in west virginia
out to maryland and back
along an old canal
the area's been settled since mid 1700's
w/business and trading
and souls
at an old lock
(used for portaging boats over rapids)
i paused and watched the
(pic attached)
and felt the presence
of a hundred generations

speaking of the pic (attached)
that's where i rode a wheelie
up to the pedestrian guard rail
tourists gathered w/digital cameras
snapping views of the gorge
and hopped on my back wheel
along the metal horizontal pole
keeping looky loos from plummeting
until i got close to a crowd
of tourist bus-istas
and launched backwards
snapping a 180
and riding slowly off
in my Darth Vader lycra
and color coordinated helmet.

i heard shutters clicking
i love showing off for the kids
"Ooohhs and Ahhhs"
they say to their parents
wishing i wasn't such an influence.

speaking of which
a neighbor wife lady
came out one day
"The kids have been admiring
your riding"
speaking of my biking
"My son said, 'My Dad can't do that!"
i had no words for her
just a smile and a nod...

and just a coupla days ago
forgive me if i beat a dead horse
another group of neighbor kids
were having snowball fights
as i dropped a load of
poopy diapers in the
yet-to-be-picked up trashcan
"Mister," said the oldest.
"The kids say you're a legend."


where you and i
have imaginary conversations
under dark starry skies
with blazing red eyes
cold brewz
i wish i was


my new car looks just like a ferrari
but it sounds like Spoiled Rat
greg loo's older brother's car
from the Live Oak parking lot

or Scott Elder's 69 Chevelle
with that pumped big block

this car is all headers
worked over
with a timing adjustment
in the cockpit
so as it warms
i can retard the timing
it barely idles
at stoplights
shaking the car
with every
"blop blop blop"

April Wine was playing
on the AM radio
piped out of the asbestos
ceiling tiles

"Just Between You and Me"
was the song
i bought some 10W-30
and headed out the side door
into the yellow Honda CVCC
four speed
and drove home
i remember buying parts
at NAPA Auto Parts
in morgan hill
from Chris Pyle
replete w/blond lambchops
coke bottle glasses
and a smarmy

remember his blue vega
a real Matthias Kusch
of Live Oak.

people here drive
like they do back home
except more aggressively
there's a stoplight every 45 seconds
and people still race to them
cut you off
for a one car lead
to the next signal

had some fool
white trash honky
try to incite a street race
passing my pantera
in his '93 Oldsmobile
dirty and dented

i let him go
and decelerated

it's the same charge
whether you steal a broken AM radio
or an Alpine.

yesterday i drove around
with my cowboy hat on
pantera snarling loudly.
heard some woman say
while it was parked
in front of the coffee shop
i called you from
"That's owned by someone
who just can't go fast enough."
she let the words snarkily
roll off her shenendoah tongue.
my baseball cap was on backwards
oakley shades hiding eyes
red checkered vans w/o socks
extended in front of me
i own the world
and yet nothing
my carbon based form
sucking air 24/7
waiting and wondering
if there's even a heaven.

most of the world
is comprised of extroverts
people who love to gab
chum it up
waste time between cubes
wandering from bathroom
to snak machine
sucking minutes off the work clock
-->introduced by management
would be replaced by speed
if only the law would allow

people are herd like
cows and sheep
told where to go
and what to do
by the Puppet Master

don't feel bad tho
even Wall Street listens


miss the warmth. a month of never going above 25 degrees is enough to make
me wanna wish for the humid summer i know is coming.

the other day i was riding across the snow on my mountain bike, when i got
into a 2 wheel drift. 'Ice' i thought. hmmmm. turned the wheel, kept
going straight. 'I know what's coming next' i said to myself. clicked out
of the pedal, put my slick, plastic SIDI shoe down, and WHAM, got slammed
like i was a pro wrestler in a ring.

kept sliding, too, bike on top of me. since i was on a lonely, 20 degree
trail that mosied along the winding Potomac, there was no one nearby to
witness. then, being the uberPacked east coast that it is, someone came
along 30 seconds later, after i was up and brushing ice out of my bacalava.


first gear crawls
up from amphitheater
3 miles in thirty minutes
fuck, even with jazz
it’s still a crawl.
can’t fight it
can’t change it
although the economy
dropped traffic
by 29 percent
I crank up the electric
seats, electromagnetic
radiation soaking marrow
lower back blood
I relax into jazz,
stoked to be
a recent member
of the radio donation

it's ray
in the phone
little line
tinny speaker
chirpin like a
raven at dawn.

Life's like the
Big Dipper
roller coaster
old, stable
scary fun
and kinda able
to get your
blood going
grins, grimaces
when turns in
the dark slam
body to
the sea-air wood
holding you in
keeping you safe.

gramps looks down
from the clouds
with a smile
"it's nothing
in the cosmic scheme
of things, little one."

some folks see
faces in the dark
shed their leashes
for yesteryears'
--> old souls
keep the lantern
lit and shining.

whaaaaado loddy
mirror morning
traffic horn
hot coffee

stay on your post
lookin out over
city soul wastelands
spirit ammends
growing grizzled
turning, spitting
on the great roticerie
of the human existence.

"we spent the night debating
the spin of the earth
and all its inhabitants
why the winds blows
and casinos have no clocks
woke up breathing
steam in the early morning light
3 day beard littered with
an acorn and some twigs
had a coupla coldies
cuz we weren't moving anywhere!"

nothing like a cold V8
glass o' juice
richocheting down yer gullet
beggar stared you down today
man in tatters
white dirty beard

all i do every night is dream
impossible, improbable
roadside reunions with
Geoff Kahn
and others from
10th grade algebra
Casa de Fruta
thick sandwiches
and cold pop
ripping time fabric
reeling twisted
down normal
dream highway.

my nights are long
trapping soul air fission
old man stepped in front of a cab
this morning
at 19th and Mission.

single shoe under new tire
bloody windshield
yellow tape
cops, and standing around
whilst ENG crews fight for
satellite uplinks
in the sewage steamy dawn.

big tan panel truck
whizzes by your SIDIs
you shift gears
swinging to the right
ass cheek tingling
anaerobic climbing
home was never sweeter
than after dancing
the double-yello
line dance of life.

(older stuff)


i haven't made my feature film yet
chained to this corporate desk
with short hair

what better way to laugh
than reckoleckt
the olden daze
spent with the jewish folk
shoutin' yiddish
at the color monitors,
token buddhist
i was.

"it's all relative"
he said with a withered
aging smile
"you can toot your horn
and some will listen
--those are the ones
that i'm gonna talk to"

otherwise you're lonely
adrift in the sea of endless humanity
like a bike
in downtown Shanghai
at noon.

marketing yourself
is the entrepenuer's way
otherwise yer an executive
and the two can never mix.

they never do
if they're true to nature.

one creates
one maintains
there is no mingling
in the middleground
of mistaken identity.

foggy north street light reality
CD quality headphone cacophony
(what does tha mean?)
we have such technology
think about a hundred years ago
when people would visit
they'd stay a day or two
as the journey to
was fantastic,
and full of tactic.

we walk down the modern street
numbed by technology
our genetic screaming
voice tucked under the turtleneck
hands in pockets
bus transfers
and ATM receipts
spit out from a metal face
with reflecting camera eyes
--is quiet this evening

60 grams of schrooms
set the students afire
raft in the bedroom
bed in the closet
big band on the stereo
and F.Scott Fitzgerald
stood on the landing
and proclaimed,
"By God, my friend
this party's outstanding!"
we teetered
n' tottered
all the way to Juan's
jesus christ was i glad
that we had 2 bongs
in the alley that night
we shall always remember
it was that last frosty night
before the first of November!


if yer not a rebel at 20
you're crazy
if yer not corporate at 30
you're stupid

gettin' older
while the beans
cook on the stove
get home quick!
the telemarketer's callin' at 7:00

it's the boss' way
or the highway
that's the method
you individual
worker bee

anybody over 30
knows that
lives that
or lives like
Chris Carlsson
on a bike
w/o love for the state
covering mortgages
planning to feed
the mouths you'll
create at midnight
love session
wife passions


i mean, just you and me. no emails. no distractions. just pure story,
reflection, enjoyment w/o trying to force happy emotions.

"each year is the best yet"
an old relative told me yesterday
we had just come from Uncle Lee's funeral
in Vacaville
the old Masons
in their cloths
said goodbye
to one of theirs.

coupla old women glanced at amy and me
jealous of our youth
our time ahead
that they can see
on a marked up
smiles belied the pain
of joy
and life
and going on.

we too shall sit
in their old chairs
and stare back in time
to our present mirror,
reflecting, like they did yesterday,
on what has gone
i'm all alone in my office right now
playing morrison's CD
american prayer
"has this dream stopped?"

shake dreams from your hair
my pretty child
my sweet one
choose the day
and choose the sign of your day
the day's divinity
the first thing you see


i'll make it
i'll make it alright
we'll have a good time
riding bikes
and backslaps
old stories
and new ones to come
-the evening slinks in
like a black velvet coat
wrapping 'round
like castle moat
your mind
like a root beer float
zam zam
sitting at a bus stop
head held high
next to a pretender
black suit
and a helluva

the 24G stops
and he gets in
the evening moves on
to other places

good morning lover!

dark fall morning
shower lather
coffee kitchen
polartec flannels
cnn updates
sumatran steamy
not this weekend
too soon for spouses
i imagine
we're living with others
not the ripped jeans
youth we once
ran thru the streets.

i had lion hair once
"days" crew jacket
with gaudy patch
i tore off with a
3 beer buzz

LSD evenings
in the streets
and alleys
of my youth mind
--dark shadows
the imaginings

sumatran steamy cafe
my friend

trees give life
and green things
in them
parks are parks
cuz we cut down
all the rest
or would,
with the steel footed
that hard hats bring on.

earth firster dies
in the path of a giant
felled by small metal teeth
set in the fleshy corporate
jaw of progress
crunching its way
to the future
-everything dies
in time.


take a close look at the lug with the raiders shirt.

he's the type that would order the allesandro

"c-mon, man. we gotta gut sixty of these bastards before 5. the game
starts at 5:30... kinda figgerin' we'd get through these faster if'n we just
picked up the pace. get out early. get drinkin.

now where's that pnuematic bolt gun?"

and shadowed handshakes
and smiling
-balsa face
fake trust,
purchased on the backs
of others.

you can be my "bro"
for 350 bucks a semester

and other terms
i will soon put in a
chico dictionary
for you,
my fellow
candiopolis frienddd

thursday fog
racked mtn. bike
billie holiday
a nice house
for this life
lovely spouse
i will it all
to corporate america
for here
i'm free
to a life
of watercooler
will call
advice suited
shopping malls

a check each week
keeps roof
and clothes,
stamped with suburban
family values
bank loans
and kitchen table
furrowed brows bent
wondering how 500k
in assets accrued so fast
--wasn't it yesterday
that we counted change
for a large pitcher?

check w/da ol' lady, wontcha?

Miwok??? isn't that an illegal trail? the one we got a tix on?

i remember the area fondly.

blowing a fuckn gasket
in that little dirt
roadside patch
you, on your black bike
big gear black sweat
cutoffs, felix tatoo
knowing i wanted to strangle you
but the ranger woulda arrested me
instead, writing tickets
for trail you took me up
later, at the elbow room, we ran the table
drunken lugs
that no one really knew
we were the other souls
that usually hide behind
our retinas
mr. budz'll pour them drinks
this weekEND

I used to work the door at a bar called Hey Juan Burritos. Many a warm
evening found me checking ID's, warning minors not to drink or they'd be
grounded (a fear tactic that ACTUALLY worked--they'd rather get busted by a
cop than me, cuz I'd kick their butt out for as long as I deemed
appropriate, running a little known algorithm to delineate the universal
punishment of relative fairness: age/sips:tude/groveling=%dismissal. This
worked. The Chico Friendlies would sit across the street from time to time,
in the B of A parking lot, and watch me card through 10x binocs. I'd see the
streetlight glint off the polarized lenses, crack a Clint smile, and reach
for an open Red Tail (back when an individual serving came in a wine
bottle). Truthfully, the place ran itself. I was no more a policeman than I
was an entertainer, a big, black Alaskan rain hat pulled deep over my eyes.
Derelicts couldn't tell when I was looking at them. If the 'po decided to
storm, the back of the bus knew as fast as I did, running the data back
along the brick wall like a 100base LAN, info probably distoring with each
passing brain, but the core, ahhhhh, the core digits remained the same:
"Here they come." I never, ever had a case of a minor getting caught when I
was on the watch. A coupla girls with really big eyes deserved a special
seat one night. I set them down in back, with free sodas, and turned on the
swamp cooler. "It's the breath of Shasta," I said. "Lean your head back and
feel the essence of time slip across your face, pull your hair back, and
cleanse your soul." They smiled as wide as the Snake River Canyon, and
jumped, metaphorically speaking, into the tall tale.


i was there with you, eating bar-b-que, drinking a pilsner, scanning the
midnight boob tube with headphones on, whilst the spousal unit slumbered
peacefully in the otra room.

today's a little busier than yesterday, but i promise to send you more
thoughts in detail.

especially attempting to draw you into my imagination.
eric clapton on a
parking lot tape deck
mixes with the tri tip
meat smoke wafting over
fall foggy tub-a-guts cloaked
in too-tight sports jerseys
names on back
belying the physical specimens
sporting them

gun racked
union stickered
chevys piloted by
callused hands
sloop into outskirted
parking spots
late for festivities
-swear words and
sweating jubilees
of arrival welcome
the obese armchair

listening right now to the CD of jim morrison's poetry.


give us silky pillowed heads

you can say so much
with so little
using the imagination
of the reader
to help you
tell your story.

"i'm sick of dour faces
staring at me from the TV tower....
i want roses in my garden bauer,

boxcars of voters
herded by TV
to the richest pens
of smiling wolves
to fill November
with dry rain
factual dismembers
countdown timers
Tom Brokaw pollsters
hotel cheers
and backroom tears

the machine grinds on
watching Wall Street
and kitchen table
solar calculators.

"let's get a scratch pad
and find out where we're at"

down the hall
and strong
practice that daily

little pencils dashing
over charts and books
coffee farts and
furrowed looks
"we need 70 percent return

Chris C's beard
caught the winter light
through frosty panes
of 100 year old glass
as the fog erased
shadows on the comfortable
couch placed outside the main
office space. "We're almost ready,"
you shouted out to him,
wrestling an empty Steno pad
full of questions.
I scratched my nuts
sound check complete.

"Waiting on you," I said.

howz that fer a peaceluvin tofu fuck?

It's warm again in Chico, perfect for a night ride through Lower Park,
watching out for the closed gates. At Five Mile, you cross over the creek on
the pedestrian bridge, busting a wheelie in celebration of the cricket
sounds morphing with the rising moon breezes. Tall pines and other friendly
trees tower over the shrinking north rim shadows, pleasant and timeless.
They've seen the Mechoopda's and the Yahi, the CCC, and countless zoomin'
students with pupils way too wide for this dimension. A car back in the 5
mile parking lot does a burnout, and you think for a second that they're
comin' after you, so ya drop it in high gear and pedal as quick as your 4130
chromoly horse'll gallop. A bunnyhop over the log at the bottom of north rim
welcomes you to the Upper World. A left on the trail below the cross, and
you're on line for the towers, soon to come. But then you think, "There's
rattlesnakes out tonight!" A rush of panic pours through your system,
causing you to put one foot down in a rush to stop. As your foot hits the
ground, you realize you didn't even look down before planting your SIDI
encased appendage, jolting more panic into your system. The phobia rises. To
calm, you review, in 3D, the pages of Carlos Castaneda's instructions for
walking in the desert at night, meditating on the, for lack of a better
term, zen of it. Soothing thoughts of knowledge and understanding battle
back the demons of the soul, chaining them to smiley faced railroad ties in
the shape of a cross planted under an apple tree. Vision clearing, you spot
the towers approaching, and reach down for a swig of clear liquid water from
the aptly titled CamelBak, that sloshing humpback protecting your spine from
over-the-bar gymnastics gone awry. A spark arcs from your handlebar to your
hand as you pass underneath the cliffside 70k volt tower (a true story),
again prompting you to drop the hammer. Your head feels like when you press
your nose up against that shitty microwave your roommate has, the one, you
remember, that fell off of the back of the 79 Chevy Blazer moving into your
apartment last August. The one, you add to your mental registry, that
doesn't need metal objects to send clouds of electricity zapping about the
small food temperature shuttle. Soon you're free of the standing hair, able
to pull over and relax past the fallen tree and the point that marks the
beginning of the 'backcountry' of North Rim Trail (NRT). You plant your
spine on a small clump of inhuman igneous protruding from the Indian Lookout
Point. You wonder how long you'd be in the air if you hit the edge at full
speed and launched into a table top. You could be crossed up for damn near 8
seconds before you'd, well, that's the not point of this story. You chuck
the though out your left ear like a boxcar whizzing by on 9th st, and clip
back in. At "B" Trail, you stop, intoxicated by the fir, oak, and evening
manzanita pine olfactorial cocktail. It drops you to your knees and you cry
for all the inhuman behaviors imposed on the indigenous peoples of this
sometimes-great country. A hoot from a tree brings you back to your senses,
and you, with new found reserve, walk boldy over to the edge, unafraid of
the snake potential, for you are, and have always been since extinguishing
that electrical torch on the handlebars. Tunnels of light protect you from
head-on's with cars, but limit your experience of the backcountry to 10
square feet high contrast experiments in newly acquired depth of field
experiments. Uh oh. I've got to go record right now. I'm the voice of MCI,
and reality's shining its harsh light into my wispy world of recollection.
There's a new section and I thought I'd already nailed it all....

demons cloud your vision
hamper mission
trip your footing
mental fission
-spewing forth
like santa swears/
retreating bears
and cold war wares.

"it's my juice, baby
you should be loving it."
daniel said, smiling in his
thready dinner jacket,
pointing out ektachrome
prints of various
dark haired cuban vixens.

-spanish tinkled down
the noisy hallway
pictures on their way
to dog-eared-om
smoking room
below the 4 star

"for you, i make an exception."

"there" is on the front porch with you, shoes up on the veranda rail, tilted
back on squeeky ol' chairs, finishing off a bowl of chili, and leaning over
to the dusty deckside surface to crack open another ice cold beverage
straight from chico's east side.

whilst the wives flit about, inside the house, talking about who knows what.

it's about sunset, rose, so we hop up on my horses and ride down under the
oaks to smoke a big



i remember our wrestling matches, where we'd slam each other on the floor so fuckin'

rug burns, and sore muscles, we were so much younger then.

now we'd be out for a week, ice packs, and hot cups of tea.

"buddha usually comes hardest to those in the city
all compete for the empty

and banks
compete too!
i'm sure

long bike ride
once a week
re-awakens the soul
to all that's possible.

i didn't get home 'til 1:00 am last night

3 hour delay @airport in Orange County. the wife's friends got married in
malibu on sat.

saw Martin Sheen there. it was sooo LA. reception on a tennis court @
groom's dad's house overlooked the ocean. plastic blondes served KILLER
food, whilst big black dogs ran eagerly thru the crowd, glad for the
attentions of drunken party-goers.

part time actresses
kept our glasses filled
and flirted with every
wedding ringed

Wake of Now

We are dreaming as the planet dies
We cannot wake up
Count to 10 and then you die.
I heard "7"when I was born.
Late last night
in the backyard
the bushes whispered"8".



Somewhere Here

I see Indian ghosts

sitting in my backyard

smiling, welcoming me

to their reality.

A hand extends, yellow

feeling of summer

warmth and memory.



Change your heart, not your face

Change your direction, not your pace

Think for self and not for ego

Think for others when you feel to

If you look beneath the issue

awareness comes with

"Peace be with you."



Los Angexaos

During the riots two white men

were pulled off a motorcycle in Long Beach

beaten and prone

gun shoved inside the helmet of one

splattered tissue against

the ANZI approval sticker.

DOA, all day

the edge of hell had arrived

Demons wore baseball caps

and Nikes, flashing

symbols and exchanging

words of hate and ignorance.


the aliens watched and laughed

another hash mark on the wall.


We are the prime time of the universe

-pay per view, maybe.

Better than fiction

it's human friction.




A bolt of white hot energy

shoots from my navel

and envelops

all around me.

Clinging to the fibrous,

unconscious connection


I pull myself through

sanity's connection

and end up in a void

where every sound plays

second fiddle

to the silence

in the middle.


improv jazz is like poetry

the notes just fall out of the air.


"share share and share alike"

said the goat herder to the fairy

"we all have different dimensions

but we can eat the same grass."


the crickets and frogs

welcomed the arriving summer

that slid over the mountains

like creeping night.  shadows

cast long, dark spears

of anarchy across the golden haired

fields of Steinbeck's muses.

Oak trees bent in the soft

twilight breeze

as bats flitted about

scooping up to 500

insects each by bedtime.

In the canyon below my

bedroom, horses neighed.



Studio 2, NBC Burbank

memories of old television shows

haunt the shadows

behind the curtains

over by Tom's prop room

I felt Elvis walk by

and shook Jimmy Stewart's hand.


Opening a door

rushing musty odor

whoosed past my sandaled feet

and circled my legs like ivy.

A quiet voice

deep inside

spoke clear


intuitive knowledge

regarding the future

of all life as we

know it.




the old characters were in from

all points

Switzerland, Chicago,

the Big Apple.

It was like the old days

before the new youngness.

I watched the pros

circle around their marks like robots

suppressing loss and

memorizing dialogue.


After a light lunch

we taped the scene

where Alice circles around

Tom's chair and puts her

hand on his empty jacket.

Camera Five was up

arcing over the downstage

coffee table when, as it landed,

a magnificent white light

emanated from the jacket

diffusing around Alice.


My heart thumped

when I realized

it didn't happen

during rehearsal.


My dear friend

came back

for his last scene.



College Senior Blues--1987

I close the door

and envelope the void

hovering near floor


The stairs lead skyward

holding the answers

to all my questions.


"It seems cyclical

that never ending act

of growing, meeting, going."


Just when you think it's safe

it comes,

and taps you on the shoulder.



Warming Welcome Globally

electric clouds pound the cement with voltage and water

things run in shadow

from inevitable slaughter.



Atherton Memories

chocolate ice cream

melting smooth and shiny


in the incandescent kitchen,

drew the attention

of the young boy

who with his brother

helped him up

to grab the dish.


They steadied,

looking 'round for Grandma

and scooted under

the grand

living room table

where they ate

the dish

right up.


At poolside

bearclaws and powdered donuts

large glasses of milk

and globs of sunscreen,

where ants where king

and the trees held many

mysterious paths

that I was never really

able to remember.


Big, old oaks

would drop their limbs

from time to time

and shade us when

we'd smell the flowers

which were, indeed,

at tricycle level.



Raybee, Floating Traveller

he reinvents himself

every hour

with every shift

in the trade winds.

And as the velvet

curtain of stars

stretches its arms

across the sky

he reaches down

into the sand

and rocks his hammock

gently in the night.



Welcome to LA

I was on Sunset Boulevard the other day

passed a lady pissing

afternoon concrete draining to the gutter

filling empty jar of cobweb peanut butter.



Prop Man

Elephant Doors

aren't for the equipment

they're for the actor

and his head.



Imagination Station

Determine $5,000

worth of an idea

when you pitch a show

and only give up that amount.

How to get anywhere

with a double-edged sword

like that?


They'll steal it

before they give you a break

so look at it like

"Hey, I'm going in the right direction"

and keep up the good work.


A ticket on this train

costs different

for every rider.




running through our

collective unconscious

reflect strings of electrons

formed by suits

looking for

profit maximization

--nothing else.


My Mentor

walking down the hallway

after a lunch at the commissary

i spied Mac at the door of his room

looking worried

"Scott, can you help me?"

i nodded, chewing

"I need something to stop my diahrrea"

damn radiation

stay there, i said

and ran to the prop room.

i knew he was up soon

his scenes were coming

with or without his medical state.

as always, my prop master bud was there

feet on the desk, listing groceries for

Alice's Restaurant set

   hey, man, i said.  Mac needs our help.

"Got it right here," he said.

i ran back to Mac's room

and gave him the potion.

he got through his scenes that day

and died soon after.



Ahhh, A Grateful Dead Show

sitting in the dark

colored lights streaming

tripping to Jerry's licks

Bobby's strum

Phil's bobbing head

Bill's concentrated look

Brent, Vince, Bruce, et al on the

keyboard soundWall

--and Mickey's devilish eyes smiling.

the air smelled of body odor

incense and

pot, fine pot



then there was that guy

in the brown, hairy cloth

dancing bears blinking all over

he'd carry that orb

of spinning lights

up for close inspection

and a mile-wide smile.

i always thought that orb

spun on forces

this planet

didn't know.


(turns out by what i read

in the paper last month

the bear fellow is a savvy

real estate investor from Palo Alto

--named his homes after Dead songs.)


there were the regulars

the tour

the sprout filled bagels

prepped in stickered

Volkswagen buses,

Coleman stove incense burning

this world of ours sure has

stopped turning,

a new direction, surely

our friend was taken

much too early.


a lost dog

looked forlorn

in the early

Vegas morn'

by concert

it had a home.


a million thoughts

come to mind

my favorite one's

on love

the love

flowing through the crowd

during the show

everything gelled

perfect undulations.



Hollywood Hills Galore

security signs and underbrush designs

television prime time curtains

draped over every street facing

living room window

beaming news

that life was now imitating life

and art was down another path.


rounded mountain viewpoints

looked agedly down upon

out of state plates

hopeful hands

and nervous glances

doing what it takes to make it

balancing the need to be straight

or fake it.


metal heads on sunset

slam gears in an old car

belching smoke

setting sun

mercedes rearview

college co-eds in a

curbside hedge

sandbar surfers

sinking a dredge


chaos reigns in soft faced heads


i used to work at bar in college

smelled just like a Red Tail Ale

when you pop one open

under your nose

--that first olfactorial impact

mmmm, so smooth



smothered here by jet fuel,

car exhaust and movie spotlights

----->about LA

one can say whatever they’d like

but i’ve been there to see

the urban delight

the low flying planes

high wires and stars

and endless metal seas of

streetlights and cars


the urban canyons of

malibu dawn

fill with surfers, actors

and suited valley bankers.



dumbass undergrad wednesday

"Tear it up, guy!"  Kyle shouted from his little bedroom off the miniscule foyer.  He sat on his little chair and drummed his hands to the beat of "Digital Display" by some funk group that sounded like Prince on amphetamines.  His cardboard windows kept precious heat in.  The small lamp on his high-backed student desk illuminated Forensics of Death, an anthropology book designed for the future coroner.  Other books included in the pool of yellow light were:

 MicroEconomics - A Close Look

Ishi - Last of His Tribe

Dawn of Man

Cultural Anthropology

From Stone Tools to Cellular Phones - The Awakening of Mind and Pocketbook

Famous Milk Recipes

Are You Type A?

 Kyle spun on his stool to face the corner of his room where a Van Gogh hung proudly on pins.  Spiders spun webs along the ceiling trim.  And a small closet housed his plaid shirts and grey Levis and white tennis shoes (Nike).  His trundle bed was slid away to allow the pre-bar dance of hopeful meet-a-girl-and-bring-her-back-here-and-suck-her-tits-and-feel-her-snatch -and-stick-it-in-and-work-it-till-you-pass out. 

 "Who wants a glass of milk?"  Shouted Kyle as he scampered across the living room. "I'm gonnnaaa have one. Whew!!!"

He slid across the kitchen floor in his white socks and came to a halt before the fridge.  A Miller beer poster with a girl in a blue, lycra half-shirt posed half clocked to the camera.  She promised love in exchange for alcohol consumption.  Kyle bought the trip.  We all did.  The door swung open and Kyle grabbed the carton.

 "Good.  Lowfat.  Better for coating."  Kyle spun away from the fridge.  "Hey Sean, mind if I drink some of your milk you fucking prick?"

 Sean answered from the faraway lands of his high ceiling bedroom, "Go for it."

 Kyle took the lid off and poured a nice, tall glass of frosty milk. Hmmmm.  Milk.  Good for the stomach.  Kyle's eyes tracked upward to his cabinet and he had an afterthought. "Toast," he said aloud as his hand grabbed the loaf of Roman Meal wheat.  "Rob, want some toast?"

 Rob answered from the faraway land of finance and calculators, "Yeah." No please.  No thank you.  Just 'yeah.'

 "And don't fucking burn it!"  Rob added.  He spit into an I Tappa Coors beer cup one quarter full of black, gritty, liquid phlegm. He sloshed it around and watched the concoction reflect his face in the 60 watt light of student reality.

 Back in the kitchen, Kyle waited patiently for his first round of heavenly brown toast to appear.  Dirty dishes were piled in the sink.  Night had fallen early in the December air of Chico.  It was the end of the semester.  For Sean, at least.

 "Man, I'm so fucking stoned."  Sean walked into the kitchen looking pretty normal. "I've never been higher." He focused his red devil slants on Kyle.  "You wanna smoke a bowl?"

 "Yeah."  The toast popped up.  "Let me butter my toast."

 "Let me butter your mind."  And Sean loped off towards Rob's room.

 "Knock, knock."  Sean said outside the closed door.

 "What the fuck do YOU want?" 

 "I want your soul, fucker."  Silence.  Rob clicked a few calculations, took a spit, and responded.

 "Come on in."  Sean opened the door a crack.  One red eye peered through at Rob.  "Get your fucking ass in here right now," said Rob, putting his cup down.  He swung his legs of the three hundred pound military, industrial, longshoreman's desk.  Sean crossed over to the unmade bed that smelled of dirty socks and stale, beer farts. 

 "Wanna smoke a bowl?"  

 Rob was tired of concentrating.  The focus drove his vision to double.  And his fingers, his fingers tired of methodical calculations that added up to A Future of Expected Success. 

 "Sure.  I'd LOVE to."  Rob jumped up and ran into the kitchen to grab Kyle and wrestle.  Kyle juggled the uneaten portion of his toast to the counter before Rob got in a good body check.  Kyle slammed against the counter and the glass of milk shuddered. 

 "You fucker," said Kyle, spinning to balance.  Without another word, he grabbed Rob and manhandled him out into the living room. 

Dan Rather talked about Madonna as Rob slammed his head into the thinly carpeted floor.  Kyle let him go as Sean ran out of his room to join in the rumpus.  Rob got up and charged Sean.  Sean grabbed Rob and spun him, with the momentum of the charge, into the couch, where Rob tumbled onto his side.  Sean landed on top of him and Rob grabbed Sean's neck and pushed back, hard. Sean's back arched, and then gave, as he tumbled back onto the floor.  Rob stood up on the arm of the couch and leaped, like a W.W.F. wrestler, onto Sean who was still lying on the floor, wheezing and rubbing his neck. 

 But Sean caught sight of Rob, and in mid air was able to slide a foot to the right. Rob's body hit hard floor as Sean leaped to his feet and waited.  Rob lay there, still. 

 "Rob.  Rob?"  Sean leaned over to inspect for damage when-

 GRAB! Rob now had control of Sean by his collar bone.  His skeletal frame allowed the grip of any attacked who knew where to grab in the folds of loose clothing. 

"AAAAHHHH!"  Yelled Sean as he tried blindly to fall away from the attack.  He used his body weight to carry him from danger, much like a person who is being electrocuted does.  Rob's bloody knees distracted him long enough for Sean to get on his feet and pick Rob up in a wrestling move.  Rob tried to straighten his legs to break the hold, but Sean was too strong.  Rob was cradled, lifted off the ground, and spun around.

 "Alright!  Alright!"  Rob shouted.  "Enough already!"

 Sean threw him down on the floor.  Rob hit like a sack of potatoes, and slid under the card table, pulling the red checkered table cloth and a dirty plate with him. 

 "Let's smoke a bowl."  Sean disappeared to his room.  Kyle downed the rest of his milk and toast.

 "Rob, your toast is ready."  Kyle said through a mouthful of food.  Rob dragged himself out from underneath the table and straightened his clothes.

 "Bastard," he said under his breath, grabbing his toast, rubbing a bruise.  "Let's go smoke some of his pot."

 Kyle smiled and they exited off, stage left.

Sean sat in his room, behind his desk.  It was dark.  The streetlight cast patterns through the leaves outside the window.  Shadows danced on the furniture and skin.  Sean swiveled in his chair and faced Rob and Kyle in the doorway.

 "Come in."  They closed the door behind them and sat down on the bed.  The stereo began on cue.  Simon and Garfunkel sung "Boxer" to the dancing candles on the desktop.  A shampoo bottle with a bowl on the side of it sat smoking, backlit by the blue, evening light.  Wiffs of smoke drifted over the candles as Rob reached for the instrument.

 "You must pay your thanks to don Juan for allowing you to be here now. The powers of the night are stalking. The powers of the night are out in force.  The powers of the night might come for you." 

 Rob's hair bristled on the back of his neck.  He flicked the lighter. 

Kyle, meanwhile, sat unaffected.  "Quit this shit and give me a hit."  He drummed his hands to "Digital Display", a song long over. 

 Sean stood up and spread his arms wide.  "We are going out tonight to a place that has a big room where there is little light and a lot of cheap booze and people to drink it in order to let down their psychological walls and try and find another soul with which to copulate."  Rob coughed.  "Please take my offerings to insure a rousing time is had by all."


coming up through the froth
my eyes detect a hope
a glimmer of life
new life
fresh life
oxygen i suck down
in great big gulps
the sky has clouds in it
behind me, LA is on fire
and lives are being taken

I heard some people
hijacked a fire engine.

there was no traffic today
on the way to the beach.

grinding gears
and legs with veins
i push up the hill
and think of sex
bills, work
and sex.

the torment of muscles
cleanses my desire
stokes my fire
pushes me
to aspire.

i've got a damn big coffee mug
you know,
the kind with a snap on cap.
I got it for road trips
but if fits, snugly, on my
fanny pack buckle strap,
and so i've been taking it
out for little trips
oh gosh. too much coffee
for one sitting i soon
i detour
to a land of thought
stomach gurglings
afternoon toil and
errand purgings.

9-25-94 Sunday. Gonna read tonight. Gotta write some poems for
the radio audience. Sitting here in my basement. Every artist
should live in a basement. Gives you a whole new perspective on
the world. Gonna turn on CNN. Take a binger. See what comes to
mind. Gonna send another email to Harry re:reading tonight.

Gonna get him excited.

every day is a miracle
to wake and breathe
smile and sneeze
walk outside
and see the sky
clouds gathering.

the gurgling creek
called me down
through briars,
thistles, foxtails
a singletrack trail
through yesterday,
a foggy notion
of some time past.

we're so caught up
with our watches
that the hours slip by
like water
in the stream
of consciousness,
flowing over rocks of thought
through the reeds of time
each stem marking the
minute we thought
of love, life
and tumbling paradigms
of conceptual analysis.
The beaver has dammed
a pool of reminiscing
where your reflection
tells of where you've been
and what you've done.
You can't see
when the wind blows
rock fins of sandstone
through the arches
of your soul.

etchings on your psyche
paint genetic petraglyphs
on the wall
of everyday reality.
You sleep because
night is full of predators,
a moonlit food chain
with inverted disadvantage
take your chances
and run in the shadows
where the goblins
shall find you shivering
in the breeze
of ignorance
weak and willing
to fill your head
with circumstancial

smoke drifts through Jim's beard
like a forest fire of a mouth,
signaling the changing of energy
a crackling spirit of nature
a paper boy's delivery
spells the end
is nearer
to the middle
than the beginning.
Someone in Amsterdam is laughing
at our legal tom foolery
closed minded schoolery
rodeo drive jewelry
billion can brewery
it's goin fast
to the highest bidder
overseas or counter
eat all your peas
it'll make you smarter.

i feel like Kelsey Grammer's
character, the radio part
especially. I have an excitement
for it that rivals anything I've
ever taken on. Radio. Thousands.
Hundreds at least. I think that
is wonderful. People all listening
in to my words, my ramblings.
My incessant spoutings.
I am honored.

The house is empty now
the floor above is silent
for when feet walk
my ceiling creaks and vibrates
but for now, silent.
I love silence.
It is much kinder to the soul
that's not to detract from the
friendly noise of other humans
creeping down the stairs at
midnight. Comfort in the
knowledge that other people
wake every day and get on
with the act of living.

on the beach I sit
watching sets roll in
looking for breaks
I wiggle my toes in warm sand
wetsuit around ankles
visualizing my attack
on the green glass
juicy fats
right on Wave Tracks
hurricane stats
I push the velcro
extra hard for sealing
snug tight wrapper
of human distinction
for the hungry shark
who missed extinction
when if you think
you're in the drink
and you get bit
it's a natural trip
jess relaxx,
and flow wit it.

but I digress
to press
the issue of the wind
in filling the face
with an extra spin
all foamy and neat
for a watery treat
ten feet high
and climbing
with the afternoon sun
rocks winked with
the lowering tide.
Inside was death
to be avoided at all costs
and I hadn't much to spend
since the power of the ocean
had one dude shivering on the outside,
looking at land like an astronaut who's
cord has been cut and he's drifting off
to dust the rings of Saturn with the
cloth of his macho underpants
just as the greed for speed
found me flying
off the break
backwards into
sea spray smells
liquid anaerobic hells
and spine adjusting forces
that cracked me from
brain stem to coccyx
I realized then
I was flying into rocks
the perfect line across
went from pearly gates
of endorphin smiles
to hellish traits
and tortuous trials
the hands of angels
dropped me in
the pulling rip
Davey Jones' long fingers
a stabbing gush of
adrenalin filled my gut
as the next wall of water
rolled in and smashed on the
rock. I thought of that
elementary school science
experiment where you blow on the
light bulb and put out the match
on the other side.
I was the burning match
fighting the breath
of mother planet
cheating death
pulling from my cabinet
the calmness of a warrior
going to his death
in fate's foyer.

I made it shore some time later,
and sat awhile, thinking of life
the miracle of breath.
I learned
Every day is a miracle.
Every day is eternity.
Every day is for the fullest
you can give to your soul
to fill it up with everything you can
and see it all, grow, question,
and flow.

flowing is important for balance.
a river flows. it can be dammed, but not stopped.
you can close your mind. but it won't quit working.

the studio was dark
except for the hot set
dressed in white
and yellow burning lights
circled with cameras,
makeup artists and
camera operators,
cables underfoot
and tungsten lamps
overhead. The air
was musty, smelling
of old seventies
television like
Sanford and Son,
Welcome Back Kotter,
and CPO Sharkey.
When it was real quiet
I could Gene Gene
the Dancin Machine
chuckling over
the Gong Show theme.

fifth grade summers
when stars would fill the skies
with questions of life
and death, and all the rest
and leaves would fall
like the calendar days
of youth, all too fast
forgotten in the piles
of memory, large and
full of individual experience.

the magic of earth
was just beginning its story
to me. I listened with
an ear to the ground
for the train of inutition
to come around the bend
of consciousness, and
pull in to my station
of youthful inquisition.


there is a shack
on the outskirts of town
that has a basement
where funny things clown
about in dusty shadows

a little thing about humanity
the jets streamed overhead
wing on edge
I could see the pilot's helmet
glinting in the sunlight
a black shield over his eyes
the boom of the engines
bounced off history


smog covered the city
like a mercury blanket
a cigarette anklet
choking the lungs
and trees and bums
who let it slide
from clean
to not
to fill the wallet
of their next month's

last time I spoke to a dolphin
I was tethered
to the Becker seven-two
six feet under, squeeking like a
trying too hard
to pass a smile
turn the dial
end the trial
for a little while.

and see what we have yet to learn
from sitting in a row
plugging in to tradition
with no intuition, you commit
cognitive extradition
w/one way ammunition
get out and mix it up
for chaos is the bottom line
in any physics equation.

thrusting my hand down
on a power chord
I heard the lounge quiet
in embarrassed curiousity
a man spun at the bar
and another crossed the pitching floor
as we cruised
through the Queen Charlotte Straights
back from Alaska, were I had left my money
and a job I never knew I had
for as I left the harbor,
the hotel called to say I was employed,
no doubt due to the Russian I had studied
during the last years of the cold war.
And as the chord finished bouncing around
in my guitar's body, the stranger
ran his fingers down the 88 tongues of
Father Piano, coaxing the crowd
to relax into musical structure.
He winked at me, and I hit a D
and two beer slid down the bar
with our names on them.
an ex-con grabbed his harp
when we hit the swell
and knew why there was
cans of beer
instead of bottles.

we played real good for beer.

the rolling redwood highway
unfolded slowly under my fat tires
humming sickly next to skinny slicks
when I wasn't off the back
huffing puffing and generally
thinking, i have never felt so bad
in such a beautiful place.
my knees ached with stabbing pain
my eyes filled my drooling brain
with sights of trees and pools of blue
with naked people splashing true, I knew

Moab, Utah
It is outside of Moab
20 miles out
that you can find heaven.
It exists, really, if you look
beyond the rock and sky
beyond the heat and time
of evolution.
over your shoulder
as you hike
under your skin
as you swim in the murky

Summer Evening, 1974
short wave
radio hum
warm breeze thru screen
I think of astronauts
ice cream sandwiches
olmypics and sandy
backlot pickup games
of kick the can
and crazy bicycles.

In eighth grade
it was the mexicans
and the cowboys
not much has changed
in thirteen years
not much at all.
Going downtown
I see much of
the aforementioned.

Short Wave Memory
static and flange
transport the human
into something god like.

Long distances,
world wide
there are no boundaries.
I want a ham license.
"WHGMS, Lake Erie,
are you aboard?"

Cross traffic
and self policing
hobbyists, keep the
"thorn in (the) sides"
out of mainstream communications.

He's pumping too many watts
or something
I can't figure out
WBNET-Mobile Net
can. He's handling things.

Mobile time
"the lulls are not too accentuated
I'd give your signal and eight and a half or nine."

Savannah, Georgia.
May 31,1993.

Maritime Service Mobile Net.
Waterbury, Conneticut.

got it. Kilo Bravo Nectar

Sierra Bravo. Santa Barbara??

This is trippy. *changing coils on antenna pack*
be back in a minute.

Romeo?? ....... come in. Are you aboard?

Alpha Victor Echo-Maritime Service Mobile Net
"preface to martitime mobiles
third party networks, and others."

Educational Radio
Single sideband
midnight anthropology
with South African
accents, austrailopithicus
2 million years B.P.

Wild Horses
Mohave canyons at twilight
surround the herd
of around twenty.
Social creatures of great passion
the leader was black and strong.
Muscles rippled under the glistening
hair. His tail whipped flies
off his immaculate coat.
His nostrils flared as he
sighted me, stopped in the road.
I rolled the window down,
to get a picture
and try to catpure this
magical moment on film.
Heat bounced off the floor
of the desert. The herd
shifted in contemplation.

They found ashes in a cave
that showed a fire was tended for
many generations.
the pile, 22 feet deep.
Homo erectus. This was the group.
They were vegetarians, primarily.
Fire cooked the meat.
Language began.
Clothes were made.
Family structures were created.
Stone tools and ice ages reigned.
The first frozen period was about 100,000 years long.
Half the world was locked in ice.
Halway to the equator, a half mile deep. Ice.

Project Saturn Global
broadcast university.

This is what I'm listening to.

the time is 12:19 a.m. June 1,1993.

the place: Morgan Hill.

The Arrival of My Magical Summer
The crickets and frogs
welcomed the arriving summer
that slid over the mountains
like liquid night. Shadows
cast long and dark spears
of anarchy across the golden haired
fields of Steinbeck's muses.
The oak trees bent in the soft
twilight breeze
as bats flitted about
their treetops
scooping up to 500
insects each by bedtime.
In the canyon below my
bedroom, horses neighed
and whinnied throughout
the dark and peaceful night.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I go to University of Santa Cruz
to check out the graduate school
for creative writing. I want to go there.
I want to go there for my adavanced degree.
I can work at any production company
for money. I can write articles.
I can write for the soap opera.
I can do anything. I can shape surfboards.
I can do that. Yeah. Yeah.
Relax. Go to bed. Quit with the ideas for