I take a bath in the windstorm as
huge yellow leaves and a few drops of rain
dive bomb me while my neighbor tussles with
more stuff he purchased and
goes inside.

It's Dance Sunday and I'm suiting up
amidst magnificent windstorm and
plumes of
fresh fallen leaves.

"Can you make a Frappicino?"

Fall hues and leaves descending like crickets pile into locusts by a cool wind. I just want to hang at home falling in giddy love but now it's off to work: Tops popping off drip coffees, people passing dollars, practical gambles, asking questions.

The hippy's in a thrift store suit and his girlfriend and their dog are just buttons of cute.

The barista is the number one topic of wi-fi poetry, followed by the lady hauling stemmed roses on her bike rack in a flop, followed by everyone else. (Including you.) ((And including me.))

"What doughnut is that?"
"What kind of cookie is that?"

YOU SEEM TO BE DENYING THE FLUFFY HORSE POWER HERE

Lately everything seems a dream,
for real,
illusion,
heat off gas fumes.

Lately I wonder what direction I'm in,
blissed til i'm sick
I wonder if

I should just change channels,
take a helicopter ride,
commit public indecency
in a foyer fountain.

I rode around the city
singing rock and
swerving poetic concrete curbs and
wondering hysteria.

Planning, you know, World War III
Remembering how to live
Hoping deep dreams as stoplights topple over across
the smooth streets from
Bauhaus to Westlake to
Zymogenetics.

I dreamed about Cindy
disrupting recruiters
as they tried to pitch
the wars.

as poets write
i was alright
( handcuffing couplets )

'She'll Never Like My Otoman'

Bring to my hands the crayons,
cheap cheese of closeout sales,
mad drugstore markdowns and
acres of thrift.

Bring me the irregular cuts,
brand names at closeout prices,

retrolutionaries in awkward specs and
Clara-Bell lock curls
poised on platorm shoes,
hair so long and manageable
sell armani with a sexy white smirk.

This "internet" is crap that I love to eat,
Though it's lowbrow flavor.

I want to do nothing. And I do nothing.
I have all the time,
and could do everything,
do nothing.

I do nothing long past the point you'd think
I'd do something.
Into the evening, night, and into the next day
nothing occurs.

The Bauhaus doesn't actually sell books,
the Bauhaus,
"Bauhaus Books And Coffee" Bauhaus.
I found My Mother: Golda Meir, and
doesn't this just fascinate you, too?
It is only a prop.

I've found other great books here,
at least once before.
I drive bits until I get road rage.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Today I got my teeth cleaned,
but it felt more like
the plaque of my mind
got microbursted.

And today I remember the
role of deeper details:
It's not coffee, but the
third coffee.

that drops a dot on
( a familiar pattern. )

After years away from tablets
I turned toward QFC (having no
bicycle destiunation before then) to buy
a tablet of paper to write, write, write on.

Not 50 feet from there I found
an awesome burgandy leather satchel
( with a completely unused legal pad )

Ian, the barista
calls me by my full name
He is so gay sometimes.
Moving like Cher or Michael Jackson
through his frantic work of beverages.

There is a little life before death.

back on the wagon, jack
too twisted by windows to oblivion again
macrabe poker hand management

i gotta relax
the coach told me
passing by the school today

as blue-jersey good kids, rich kids
ran up the block and walked back.
ran up the block and walked back.

jazz sounds too sylvia
and that's sad.

When she hustles out another dance move
and has another cigarette

I start the day singing in the shower
and tearing up old shit

All the petals just fell off
the dahlia Michael stole for me.

The proper execution of nothing at all
in sun setting, day cooling,
still the constant trumble
of cars.

All the distractions of a failed oil man
convinced it's answered prayers
slash and hurtle America to destruction.

Terrorists, hurricanes, and
how we respond are separate
domains.

Nuke Mecca, that will show them
the means we'd willingly go to
from our fat butts in Congress
to our cigar snifter elite

Who wouldn't even smell
the burning flesh of WWIII
"over there"

Up the hill
Open the worms
tie poetry to the sky.

I miss everyone lately.
All the people, all the time.

There are a million names in the city,
A million words.

Until you wish you were a dog set on a leach
to cross the road with him,
Like the plush pip coming from Kristi's Grooming Company.

My favorite cafe has turned into a hot destination.
Everywhere, life is populating spaces,
Dogs are crossing streets.

Snap, dig that deal,
after all the pain,
of not just good, rough peace
but real opportunity.

People tell stories of September nip,
The sun is suddenly a faultering friend.