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.

a dance.

There are no pictures to prove the story we tell.

No evidence of her in an orange dress and him in his suit, dancing.

Awkawardly tripping, laughing.

No one thought to capture the night's innocence or passion.

Yet, it's my favorite story to tell. I can still feel his fingers tracing mine, his kisses on my eyelashes.

His earnest goodbye.

No way to prove that, even then,

they knew it was love.

But believe me, it was love.

shifting shadows

i stand, steady underneath

the shifting shadows

of day break

and noonday

and dusk before the night,

waiting for dawn.

i stand steady underneath.

waiting for a crash 

of reality

and 

i want to feel it all.

the future and its questions.

even if this all falls apart, i don't think i could ever hate you,

resent you, or speak poorly of you.

even if it stings.  even if i never want it to fall apart.

your kindness is too great to deserve anything but fondness

and abundant gratitude.

"He admires [her], but he does not love her; for we admire things with reasons, but love them without reasons."

as it is now, i admire you for your kindness,

 

and you already have my gratitude.

i would like to learn to let you love me.

and see if i can love you too, abundant, without reasons 

and beyond compare.

fireworks, fireworks.

i speak in we's and ours,

if only for imaginations sake.

but i won't bind you to me, 

unless there

in a secret meeting,

you draw me unto you

to stay.

i'd stay.

i don't do well with unknowing

distances and timelines

or anxious hearts flowing 

to and fro -

you and i.

i do much better with 

the simple confidence

of a red string tied around my finger,

a simple promise.

we. ours.

but i will make no promise,

tie no strings.

aside from a quiet yes

to answer to your questions of affection.

i speak of love, as if we've been inside that cavern together before.

i only know your eyes, earnest and gentle, and yearning for an explosion of life.

fireworks, fireworks,

i love the view.

thursday afternoon.

it's easy to ask a lot of questions in this city.

constant pleas for truth and love

lying on my floor.

it's easy to be devastated in this city.

constant beggars for coins and change.

please, don't smoke crack outside of our window,

excuse me, excuse me.

we're all dirty here.  

my heart wanders here searching for some rest.  a place to grow its roots. 

fighting anxious thoughts and nervous ticks. 

countdowns. 

growing in frequency are the occasions are of laughter.

what i really love is the swirling peace in worship mingling around my eyelashes and into my heart confirming love, love, love.  mystery in the secret desires crying, jesus, jesus, jesus. spirit smells holy and sweet and draws me to come, come, come bask in the delight of a father and a beloved and a spirit who love me eternal, love me strong, love me to peace and silent campaigns of salvation.  

I did one of the most frightening things I can imagine today.

I painted.

san francisco summer time.

it's been a long time since the feeling

has fallen on my fingertips to

write, write, write.

like the city's fog,

thoughts are muddled in a mixture

of truth and lies.

i spend my days strolling 

down broadway asking the 

price of sex and love.

in my own mind, too,

wondering what the difference is,

and if i can be pure and loved.

or if the johns i see and meet

are everyman.

and if someone will prove that not every woman is a whore.