into the hundred thousand apartments
curated for mankind to invade a peninsula
with their buildings and restaurants
and cars and stoplights and commerce
Month: February 2020
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Sleepy somber sweet time notes
Leaving longer knee-high modes
Making mostly meager half rhymes
Seeking timbre needle thick lines
Needing no more they say lies
Singing one too many times
Age as motivation
I see age, and it makes me want to live faster. I see an old man with long white hair in the coffee shop. He walks with a cane and holds onto the counter. It seems like he has trouble seeing too. I wonder what it would be like to lose my own sight. I think of all the things I could no longer do. I must do them now! Quick, before it’s too late. Run! Get up. What are you doing sitting down in a coffee shop? You must use your youthful abilities while you still can.
More sleep night stuff
Dark as night
Except for sun
So when to wake
Is clear as day
Not for nocturnal
Lights at night
Never sleeping
Up early to find
Sleepy nighters
Still stumbling
Soon to bed
In the daylight
Not right
Can’t sleep
Sleepy man of slumber
I wonder wakey-eyed
Do you step
With extra pep
After many restful nights;
For me I cannot
Sleep at all
As wakeful as I am
Up till dawn
And on and on
I cannot rest
I’ll do my best
To shut my eyes again
So sleepy serious
I wonder waking
Will I be
The same he sleeping
Dreaming
Of other lives
Living them
So sleepy serious
Feeling their fears
Scared to death even
And excited at their joys
These others
That are not me
But still are
In some way
What keeps me
From waking
As one of them
I do not know
Dreams and nightmares
Dreams
Of other worlds
Sometimes better
Sometimes worse
Than my own
Feeding
How much into
My hopes
And fears
Alike
I do not know
Exactly
City symphony
Outside the window
In the morning
A song bird
Sings soprano
And a car horn
Beeps baritone
Slightly more symphonic
Than the city sounds
I am used to
Sleeping in
Sometimes
There is something to be gotten
Just sitting here
Lying in bed late
Waiting or postponing
Whatever was planned for you
Awake and out the door
Against that schedule
Structure
Serendipity strikes
Requiring
A non-staunch demeanor
For once
To lift your head
Off the pillow
Just long enough
To turn off the alarm
And return to a dream
More important than reality
Watching weather patterns part 2
Clouds move slowly
So I can’t tell for sure
If they’ve changed
Without keeping focused
On one point
For some time
Watching weather patterns
If only watching
Weather patterns
Carry cloud wisps
Away carelessly
Unbeknownst
To eyes without
Patience to watch
One point
Long enough to notice
That the clouds
Are actually moving
Albeit slowly
As eyes accustomed
To fast things
Will surely miss
While beach laying
In an effort
To slow down
Sober trip
Rubbing my eyes
I enter into
This outer space
An oxymoron
To go into
What leads out
Like the small door
In the Wonka factory
Or the key
To Wonderland
I chase after
With eyes for legs
Abstract patterns
Like fireflies
In the night
Of my closed eyes
Forgetting everything
Like being a body
In a shower
Noticing only
The bright yellow halo
With a black hole
In the center
Pulsing and blurring
Off into the distance
Of my vision black
I run harder
To intensify this vision
Of my own internal
Solar system
Of dynamic stars
That dance
As I rub my eyes
Accustomed to seeing
The real world
Mixed up
Offering apparitions
In a dark world
Of my own UFOs
Where I can play
Like a child
Chasing after
What I do not yet
Understand
Love burns
You fall in
Or you fall out
Either way
You are falling
As love does not
Take one
Or let one go
Easily
It is in heat
And then ice cold
By its very nature
Fighting for dog custody
An older lady
Crossing the crosswalk
Runs behind her dog
Holding the leash
Trying to keep up
Arm outstretched
Until she can’t
And let’s go
As the leash falls
And the dog is free
To sprint full speed
To meet a friend
—A man outside
Of the coffee shop
Holds out his arms
For the dog
To jump up
And say hello
Classic nap trap part 2
I am iffy
After a nap
Staring wide eyed
Woken
Too soon
From deep sleep
Jumped up
And almost fell over
Holding
My hands out
As stabilizers
Stumbling
Bumping
My shoulders
Against door frames
And hallway walls
Without my wits
About me
Classic nap trap
I woke up wobbly
Without my brain
When I realized
All of a sudden
That I was late
For a dinner date
And pulled on jeans
And snatched my coat
And slammed the door
And stumbled
Down the stairs
Shouldering the wall
For support
To catch the bus
And only when
I was finally seated
Did I get the chance
To be confused
About how to fare
In the fast-moving
Bright new scenery
Having been dreaming
Just moments ago
The above is the edited version.
The below is the original.
I woke up
Without my brain
Wobbly
Late
All of a sudden
I realized
For a dinner date
And walked outside
To catch the bus
Confused
And wondering
How to fare
In the new scenery
Having been dreaming
Just moments ago
Buried alive
I lie on a pebble beach
Arms outstretched
Grabbing fistfuls of pebbles
And covering my chest
In vain, as I breathe
And my chest expands
The pebbles fall off
To either side
Thinking hole
At the beach
With my friends
I went away
On my own
Over to the cove
And found
A little laying spot
And so I laid
Until I got caught
In a thinking hole
Then I came back
For my friends
To help me find
My lost mind
Rise and fall
With my fingers
Interlaced
Over my chest
Lying down
Breathing deeply
Through my nose
I can feel
The rise and fall
Of it all
The right temperature
The sun shines
In between
Stretched clouds
Just in time
For wind-chilled
Skin to warm
Blue sky
Laying on my back
On a hilltop
In the Marin headlands
I focus on my eyelids
With my eyes closed
Squinting to vary
The abstract shades
Of blue I see
Sidewalking some more
Turning corner
On the sidewalk
With a building
In the way
So I can’t see
Who’s coming
Turning wide
To avoid
Another
Coming my way
Turning tight
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The mood light
In the bathroom
Changes shades
Of mango
Cherry lime
While the shadow
Of the shower faucet
On the far wall
Remains black
Need to sleep
I cover up
My colored soul
With sheets
To sleep
In the night
Woken
Wanting to
Start the day
But it’s too early
Needing to
Defer to dream
A little longer
Woken to write
I wake up
To write poetry
Like that must be
Why I’ve woken
With a full subconscious
Spilling over
Out of my ears
And onto my pillow
Wetting my cheeks
Waking me
Blanket in bed
I am cold
In bed
So I add a blanket
Then I am not
So I push the blanket
Halfway down
Then I am cold
So I bring it back
Up a quarter
Then am hot
So I get up
To gather
A thermometer
And ruler
To measure exactly
Wind song
The wind
Comes again
Causing rusty hinges
To swing
Squeaky singing
Harmonizing
With the howl
Sad
Why feel sad
I don’t know
I just do
Well stop
I say to myself
But I can’t
Not that easy
Feeling frustrated
It is not that simple
Like work
That I can work harder
In order to solve
To feel better
I wish it was
Then I would work
All the time
To feel better
Material light
A speck of light
On the floor
In the night
Looks like something
More than light
Material
So I step over
In the hall
To avoid
Stubbing my toe
Realizing
It is only light
By the shadow
On my shin
Choppy waters
Out in the ocean
I can see
From the hilltop
The water is drawn
With white lines
On a windy day
Not so glassy calm
As most mornings
I’ve climbed atop
This here hill
How old men walk
I’ve noticed that old men always walk with their hands behind their back. Usually one hand is grabbing the wrist of the other. They’re slightly hunched over, watching the ground in front of their steps. This posture has always struck me as pensive.
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I watch the wi-fi
Tower lights flicker
Next to the bookshelf
In our apartment
And wonder if
Those waves go
All the time
And if they might be
Unhealthy
Buildings dance in the wind
The wind today
Is so powerful
Silent
For the most part
Blowing as usual
Until a big gust
Musters up
All at once
Even the buildings
Lose their footing
And creak
As they lean over
Lazy morning
Lazy
Like the dewfall
Doing nothing
In the morning
Except for laying
On leafy sheets
Happy Sunday
I think of myself
As if looking
From up above
And the expression
That I would wear
While laying here
How would a painter
Paint this smirk
Of contentment
How wonderful
On a Sunday morning
To sleep in
Baby on my arm
Breathing softly
And white sheets
Perfectly warm
While the wind
Blows outside
I wear this smirk
With my eyes closed
Staying silent
Breathing through my nose
Sounds that keep me up
Outside the wind howls
Cars go by
Some shouts from who knows
Inside the radiator whistles
The fridge whirs
The walls creak from the wind
Sheets rustle—
These are the sounds
That keep me up
Love you too babe
Standing in the bathroom
Putting lotion on my face
Tapping my foot
To the sound of the shower
Water splashing
On the other side of the curtain
I said aloud “I love you”
And from the other side
Of the white curtain
Came a cute hand
Along with the words
“I love you too babe”
Spooky light
A green light gotten gantry straddles the bathroom door to lift up the ceiling and allow in some more grim spooky Halloween mood that goes with the green slimy swamp like expecting to see a skeleton or something floating in the bath water
Work life balance
I get sick and congested
With my office life
Blowing old allergen air
Through the HVAC system
Suffocating in my desk chair
Shielding my eyes from the screen
As low as I can get the brightness
Eventually having to hold my breath
And barely escape on a Friday
When I can snort and hock a loogie
To finally take a deep breath
Of fresh weekend air
And say how I feel
Not holding my tongue
Only for profit
And what my boss allows
And stretch out
Of that ninety degree seated posture
Light passing through
Light passing through
Like a shadow lantern
Let on from street light
Between tree branches
And fire escape rails
Tinted by window glass
Cut in eighths by drape
Entering our bedroom
Making a movie for me
Falling asleep watching
The walls come to life
New shadow
A shadow I don’t
Normally see
Separated in half
At the wall’s height
Halted only by
Intersecting ceiling
So far as candle flame
Keeps light left
And right of lamp shade
Monster trash truck
The trash truck outside
Sounds like a force
To be reckoned with
Mechanical monster
Clanging the can
Banging it back and forth
Shaking out its contents
Like a culprit for answers
Or a debtor for spare coins
Then crushing it all
It’s trash anyway
But consuming is fun
So the trash truck bangs on
An object in motion
What speed goes so fast
As I head off
Hurtling downhill
Into the afternoon
And straight past 5
With my fingers in my hair
Trying to shampoo out
My thoughts in the shower
And wash them down the pipe
With hot tea to relax
I can’t stop going lately
And part of me loves it
Like an object in motion
Happy to stay moving
Having gotten to this speed
Seeming almost
Not to require energy
To maintain the breakneck
Though I fear the force
That will halt my hurtle
And possible break everything
At some point down
The non-now worry road
Go with what you’ve got
Go with what you’ve got
Getting after all or not
Not needing much
To muddle with mundane
So much sometimes
Bordering on the insane
Inane enough to notice
Not twice but thrice
That you were off your rocker
Off indeed and down stream
Drowning at times
If not for the nine cat lives
Keeping you above the surface
Or at least quickly erasing
Your memories of death
Like the lives we live waking
Returning from dreams
Which we’re certain, are not real
Unless something uncanny
Recurs into your reality
Forcing you to remember
When that had happened
Like deja vu, or a past life
Unsure of which and why
You cannot tie or trace
The beginning and end
Of an endless race together
Knowing only that you must run
And never stop
For as long as you are breathing
Heaving after, lurching
Lunging for what you see
Or to stay ahead of others
Everyone has their reasons
Expect for those who stop
And even turn around
Causing perplexion
On the faces of those passing
Who will still not turn themselves
As long as there are still more going
In their direction
Like a school of fish in a current
We are all just passing by
Idle my sigh not for me
No not for me
For I enjoy this race
And run with pleasure
Until my lungs burst
Here come the good smells
A sliding car door
Opens and shuts
A van must be
Bringing pastries
For the bakery
Downstairs
At 3:53am
A sliding car door
Opens and shuts
A van must be
Bringing pastries
For the bakery
I will smell them
When I open the window
In the morning
The steak I ate too late
I wake up in the middle of the night, I think because of the steak I ate too late before bed. I have this energy now, as I digest, keeping me up. At first I am annoyed, wanting to get back to sleep. But then I think, I might as well take advantage of this energy and spend some time waking now, and then surely tiredness will come again, once I’ve digested and used up the energy.
The split in the drapes
The drapes that cover the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, are separated just barely, like the split in a log that appears as the axe is first wedged in, but before the two halves completely separate. The split in the drapes is slightly wider at the bottom, so more yellow light gets through there, and onto the white rug. Light from passing cars gets through the narrower part of the split at the top. This light is dynamic and animates the room as the car passes. It’s shape depends on the part of the split it is passing through. And it’s position on the wall depends on the cars motion. As the car is coming from the west on California, the slim light starts above the dorm or way to the kitchen, and then travels over the bookshelf and desk until it is above our bed and then disappears because of the angle once the car is too far east. This is the closest thing I’ve got to a motion picture, since we moved the television into the closet last week.
Meditation about meditation
As I mediate, I stand with the point of my nose touching a surface that is black as night. The surface is like a wall that extends as far as I can see in all directions. If I only look forward, there is only this black. If I look side to side, I can still see some of the world outside of this black in my peripherals. I can see some light and non-black colors reflected on its surface. This is at the beginning. For as I breathe, with my eyes focused forward, looking “at” the black, I start to see “into” the black. Then my nose starts to permeate the black surface, as I take long, deep, and even breaths. The non-black colors in my peripherals narrow on each side of my field of vision until my eyes are completely submerged in the black. My nostrils and mouth and breathing are also in the black now. My whole focus becomes this black world that is beyond the surface, like it is to see the surface of water from far away and only be able to see it as a sheet of one color, until you are submerged beyond the surface and see all the sea life and depth underneath which contribute to the surface color. In the black I start to see mirages – abstract shapes of varying colors and textures, often moving off into one direction and eventually out of sight, like odd, slow shooting stars. I am not sure whether these are real or just my mind playing tricks on me. Perhaps memory scars of the lighted world that I left behind the black surface. I strive to step deeper into the black, but it is a viscous atmosphere, even more so than sludge, like rock that I can only move through very slowly, and by remaining focused on my breath. Otherwise, if I began to lose focus, I am pulled back out of the black. Sometimes I teeter back and forth, on the verge of the black, at the point where my eyes are just on the surface, and some of the lighted world remains on my peripherals. I wonder what it would be like to step all the way into the black and then turn completely around, so that instead of looking into the black from the outside, I would be looking back out at the colored world from the inside, with my nose pressed against the surface of a multi-colored world. But that would take much focus and time, to step into the black world and turn completely around. It might take days of meditation.
working too much
People in my dreams tell me I look tired. I wake up and wonder if I am working too much. It is 4 AM so I try to go back to sleep. I sleep until 5 AM but then cannot sleep anymore. I wake up and get dressed while my girlfriend is still asleep. I fumble for my things in the dark. I step out of my apartment and start to walk on the sidewalks that are empty. I prefer it this way, but I do wonder if I am working too much.
Watch man
Whereas I once
Would have rather
Left it at home
Preferring to be a boy
Ignorant of that number
To which the hand points;
I have since become
A watched man
Watching all the time
Alley worship
At the end of a long little bit Alli Lough let Lough let Alli a man on his hands and knees on a cardboard Matt bows waving his arms shouting like he is worshiping not to a God I don’t think a guy that would’ve put him in this alley in his dirty clothes just something else probably if you made of his imagination maybe inspired by drugs maybe you’re just being in the alley too long I have to emphasize how long the alley is and it’s a dead end at the end I say this because he is so far away from everyone that is walking by the mouth of the alley on the sidewalk is very low and having a zone momentI wonder how long he’s been down there and if anyone has visited or maybe he chose to be alone on purpose for his worship
edited:
At the end of a long low lit alley a man on his hands and knees on a cardboard mat bows waving his arms shouting like he is worshiping, not to a God I don’t think, not a God that would have put him in this alley in his dirty clothes. But something else, maybe made up by his imagination, maybe inspired by drugs, maybe just from being in the alley too long.
I have to emphasize how long this alley is and it’s a dead end at the end. I say this because he is so far away from everyone that is walking by the mouth of the alley on the sidewalk. He is very alone and having his own moment.
I wonder how long he’s been down there and if anyone has visited or maybe he chose to be alone on purpose for his worship.
Broken wheelchair
I saw a man
On the sidewalk
Laying on his side
Beside
A broken wheelchair
One wheel
Was detached
And he was tinkering
With the part
Of the chair
Where
The wheel connects
One of his feet
In a cast
Was laid out
Far enough
Into the bike lane
That bikers
Had to swerve
To avoid
All considered
He did not seem
As stressed
As I would presume
Of a man
In a wheelchair
That is missing
One of two wheels
Tinkering
With the wheel
With the same disinterest
That one would surf
Channels on the TV
In their own home
Meditate on this
Realize that Time is the currency you should really care about.
me
Anything that starts out
With I as the object
To which the attention
Of my poetic diction
Has turned
Is bound to be
More subjective
Than an actual object
Outside of myself
(Like a cloud or a car)
To which readers can
More easily relate
Unless I can make myself
Objective enough
For readers to see me
As themselves
Writing makes things make sense
Putting things into words makes thoughts or feelings makes sense in a way you didn’t even know they could. In your mind I think feelings take on a form in a language that is only yours in your own heart or head. Writing forces you to translate those feelings into language that is common and relates to others and the rest of the world around you—and therefore makes your feelings seem immediately more rational and objectively understandable, or at least more fleshed out.
Gratitude for health
I am sick
Sound and central
Swept away
After who knows
How long
Healthy as can be
Forgetting
As I always
Eventually do
After some time
Just after
A period of sickness
That I am grateful
As I should be
For the health
God grants me
Sunday nap
I wake up
From a Sunday nap
At 6:49
And for a second
Am not sure
If it is night still
With the drapes drawn
Or morning
I ask the clock
But he will not say
AM or PM
I draw the drapes
And the amount of cars
Looks like
It could be either
Like a skier
In an avalanche
Supposed to spit
To find
Which way is up
I am unsure
Rocking chair
A wicker chair
With four legs
Has two legs
Slightly shorter
So the chair
Rocks side to side
In the wind
Traffic noise
There are periods of peace
Sitting on the street corner
While cars on both sides
Are waiting
Until the light changes
And engines rev
And some honk
To get the ones
Not paying attention
To go
And peace resumes
Once they’re gone
Until the next light
Cafe chair
On a chair I sit
Outside of the cafe
I wonder how many
Have sat here before
Some vagrants
Others, patrons of the cafe
It is sunny today
And this seat
Is a nice place to be
Hippie surfers
They’ll all find some day
Found things lost time ago
Take a cycle to repeat
Trending up and down
Rearing their headed crest
Above the horizon
So the mainstream can see
And all behind is hidden
When the surfers swam out
Far enough beyond
The crest headed wave
Will have the ocean
Dark blue and deep sky
All to themselves
Until that wave crest crashes
Where the mainstream can see
And a few more will venture out
Building tops
Where building tops
Meet sky
In a fine line
That defines
The clear distinction
Between our
Complicated world
Balconies, parapets
Window sill, frame
Glass, trim, terrace
Fire escape, chipped paint
And the heavens
Always there
Much simpler
And promising
In my opinion
Free grass
In the backyard of houses in the Marina neighborhood in San Francisco, I see tiny plots of grass that are hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars per square foot, in terms of real estate cost. When there are plots of grass 100 times larger occurring naturally in nature, completely for free.
Long lines – don’t really like this one
I wonder
About long lines
If those within
Are more eager
To get to the end
Than they are satisfied
Just to be in line
With others waiting
Stage fright (1/22/20)
I perform better under vigilance from others with feats involving strength whereas sometimes self-conscious like with speaking I can do better alone or at least I perceive hard to hear myself as I ramble on wondering about the push from others in some regards and in others hand clammy getting nervous can’t so much as utter a word stage fright if only I could lift the podium off the stage and toss it into the crowd I could do that just fine
Seeking dryness
Across the street
A crowd stands
Huddled together
On a stoop
In the rain
Everyone
Is the same
Seeking dryness
I think only of production (1/21/20 3:09am)
I think only of production often times I can’t even access parts of my brain associated with pleasure from normal waking hours before something in my hunting cortex pushes a to-do list in front in part do to my being male and in other part due to making to-do lists in the first place about which I am encouraged to obsess over by various pressures so that when I wake up at three in the morning the order of things which I think about is I need to use the bathroom I am thirsty and then thirdly not but a few seconds after having had a drink the to-do list enters and working begins as soon as waking energy begins I realize this because the weekend before this Tuesday I was ill and forced to think only of my health and realize again what it is to live in the present and enjoy without planning for the future — for this reason, I was actually enjoying being sick as dreams inspired by idle reading returned to my sleeping hours and passive curious thoughts after hours of laying in bed and staring at the white ceiling and wondering only about what was slowing right then without energy to do anything more
My new pink shirt
My whites
Aren’t as white
As they would be
If I didn’t wash them
With my colors
Harmony
Sometimes
the sounds around
harmonize
with the music playing
from the speaker—
the honk outside
matches a high pitch
or the door lock
clicks right when
the cymbal crashes
Good art vs. great art (01/19/20)
I think one of the differences between good art and great art is that good art is enjoyable once you’re already in the mood that it was created for—like club music when you’re drunk or academic writing when you’re up early drinking coffee.
Great art gets you into the mood whether you’re already there or not. You could be sitting at your desk at work in the afternoon and read a great poem and all of a sudden you’re transported to an emotional state where you’re almost crying.
For good art, you have to be there already. Great art takes you there.
Tea color
I stand and watch slowly
As the tea color turns
Hibiscus light pink
To darker blood red
In boiled pot water