I feel like saying to myself,
"You got yourself into this mess, let's see you get out of it."

True, I am a mess.

I churn with an honest fear- your face is so familiar, but I don't know your soul. No, I don't know your soul.

Just two more sleeps before the truth is revealed. Rest now, while you still can.

I see a lot of death here in the Tenderloin.
Things falling apart.
But then again, I can see a lot of life in these streets.

There is still so much hope left in us.

new york

what i hate about new york

is the constant pushing on all sides;

the pressure to be glamourous all the time.

to live up to it,

all the time.

and here's what i want to say to you, new york,

before i venture back onto your sidewalks

glittering in the sunlight:

i don't want it.

in fact, i want the opposite.

i want to be dirty,

i want to live in the dirt.

i want to be covered in the unpleasant reality of human beings

who just want hope,

(but still do what they do to get by).

new york,

i like walking by the piles of shit that my here neighbors leave behind.

because, some burdens are really just too heavy to keep.

new york, i would rather have my fingernails peel

than my fingers lined with gold.

obstinately, i protest.

there is more, new york, than composing my perfect life in my perfect studio and working working working to keep it clean.

and so i will work to keep my eyes and my heart open.

i will read novels that remind me of all the feelings that i (so often) like to forget.

life is tragic.

new york, i will not gloss over sorrow.

but, i will ask for tears to come, and i will buy used to clothes as to not enslave children,

nor myself.

yes, i will work to keep myself free.

and my glamor will be in my pursuit of Beauty, not of things.

i am tired of having so many things.

i want to for free or for cheap, and laugh and feel love well up inside of me.

and then,

then i want to fly.

At the pier,
I looked and saw the bridge across the bay,
The port,
Coit tower,
And a lighthouse illuminate the sunset through the fog.

I will miss you San Francisco.
You've done me so much good.

the moon.

i miss you, in this hour.

it is stronger than other hours.

as though, like the tide pulled by the moon,

i'm drawn in to you,

wanting you to draw in, too.

I wonder if, one day,
We'll call divorce
unmarried.

"I am getting unmarried,"
one friend says to another.

Undo, redo.

No start, no end.

Loss of meaning,
Linear bends to circular.
round & round.

I wouldn't like it.

letting love drain out of me

Last week he cried & cried.
I drew him in close to my belly & my breast and sleep over took him.

Love over took me.

This week, after he finished his bottle, he picked himself up, and nestled his head in my shoulder. Asleep, fast & purring.

And I cried, letting love drain out of me.

The fog

The fog rolled over the Sunset today.
I found its origin in the Presidio.
I'm back there again,
Rocking a baby back to sleep.
Its lonlier than last week.

In loneliness, I'm thankful for San Francisco's fog,
I looked to the ocean but couldn't see it.
We all get lost sometimes,
Even the Pacific.
There was something solemn in looking out and not seeing what I sought.

There is mystery and there is sorrow.

And I hoped not to be seen for a little while.
I like being shrouded in fog,
Sheilded,
Hidden.

Especially tonight,

Especially tonight.

polk street

today i was walking down polk street which used to be lined with male prostitutes, but i've never seen one. they prostituted themselves because they were young and needed money for heroine. sex sells and heroine is expensive.

i was on my way to wildflower. i go there to make art and sometimes talk to heroine addicts. today, someone bought a book i made. the money will go to replace opium plants with pomegranate trees. that felt good. hope feels so good.

but, on my way to wildflower, i saw the saddest thing of all. three teenagers were talking, smoking, laughing. one crouched down on the sidewalk, tied up her arm, and pulled out her needle.

heroine. the most violent of all drugs.

i thought of robert frost. i have been one acquainted with the night. i wondered if his heart hurt sometimes, just from watching life fall apart into death.

because, sometimes mine does.

cool, finally cool

I know this comes from somewhere-
memories drift from cloud to cloud,
descending on us all, like rain.
soon we'll all have the same experiences,
perhaps a universal existence.

but, anyway,
if I could live as a child again
this is what I imagine I would do:

whenever it was hot,
like living in the Valley hot,
I would occasionally find a concrete wall,
lift up my shirt,
and press my stomach upon the cool,
letting the solid grey
permeate across my skin.

cool, finally cool.

and now that I'm old, and will always
consider somethings a little too late,
I know how to weep like I'm old.
in short, dramatic, gasps,
with only a few tears.
and the hot flows down my face.
shame, maybe, or impassioned anger
over promises broken.

(just like a child knows that
she was born with something wrong
and someone needs to come and fix it)

and I lift my shirt up and press my stomach against
the grey.

cool, finally cool.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

the way of Him doesn't make sense to me,

love until it hurts, then love some more,

until i step into his swirling presence,

glory, glory,

he loves me.

he loves me.

the wretched of the earth learn that God is on their side.

he loves me.

he loves me.

and in the swirling hurt of other loves,

i sit and rest.

surprised at my own calm between frightened

gasps for air.

(i need air, i need air.)

i sit and rest,

surprised at his steady hand on my shoulders,

surprised by joy, even.

i know that i need him like i know that i'm hungry or thirsty.

or, more accurately, i know that i love him because when i'm

near him i can breathe.

even when my hopes are full of heartbreak,

when he's near, i can breathe.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

love until it hurts, then love some more.

Tonight this is what I notice about San Francisco:
The presidio's forest, sweet pine, standing glory over the ocean.
Summer air, summer children playing in the sandlot garden.
Innocence, healing.
A child, too small to know the past horrors, falling asleep in my arms.
Rocking.
Tender is the night,
I love this life.

I like the way love feels.

folk music. america, america.

connecticut to california.

silence, breathing,

ooos, ahhs,

love.

i'm in love.

i'm in love.

a garden in my heart

i am building a garden in my heart for you.

it will grow with thyme,

basil and parsley.

flowers will greet you at the gate.

your love is growing a garden in my heart
for you,

to welcome you 

home.

i hope you will make a home in my heart.

and sit with me on the porch to watch life exploding.