We live on faulty earth in paper houses, subsist on the crumbs of a stale paradigm and pretend to be grounded. California has a cruel streak about 800 miles long and if you’re not careful she’ll turn you upside down. Today there was a question mark in the sky, I saw it with my own eyes. When it finally dispersed like the last wisp of foam in my coffee, a light rain fell. But, it never rains in California, it only pours. We live in extreme times in the extreme west. We h...

It was two hours past dusk when the city surrendered to a merciless rainfall. Flickering neon mocked those who equate evenings indoors to sensory deprivation. The same people who take mornings with a beer chaser and leave the heat of the day to snakes. That song about California is true; it never rains, but oh how it pours.  Southern California is the spoiled offspring of the American Dream and occasionally deserving of a good spanking, but five days of continuous, punishing showers was...

plasmatic sacral stirrings spit scarlet obscenities graffiti the tile with exclamation points of revelation pelvic declaration of power and despair bless the fair, young pussies that bleed pink and taste like cherry cola Eve was one them the blood thickens with age and slaves to the cycle curse the moon and the empty womb Nipples are for babies lovers are for losing the contents of the uterus not always of our choosing

Every six months or so, my father’s wife alerts me to the impending arrival of a large box. The box will contain artifacts from my past lives, carefully excavated from the second story of the house where I spent my youth. The house where my mother died. Rusted tins of bobby pins Broken jewelry Matchbooks Gift-with-purchase toiletry bags Coins cemented together with decades old chewing gum Every item has immunity from her trash cans, but most find their way into mine. So, when the baby book ar...

Ashes to Ashes My mother ironed our underwear. The cigarette balanced at the edge of her tightrope lip defied gravity. Burnt orange ashtray danced atop the ironing board like an open grave, primed for another skeleton to fall. "Welcome to the Chinese Laundry," she'd say, laughing on the outside. Surrounded on all sides, by hanging garments which doubled for wallpaper. In the 70s our clothes matched our kitchen. We wore avocado and ate dead animals. Later, from her living room deathbed morphin...

"If a woman wants to be a poet, she must dwell in the house of the tomato." --Erica Jong Tomato at my doorstep Declares itself mediator Talking tomato silenced on the cutting board Ruptured flesh speaks foreign language Gentle tomato smiles wounded Blood meets acid tongue Blood travels cracks of cemented heart Alters topography Maps reconciliation Submits to vital organs Submits to absorption Sacrificial tomato is reborn in blood and bone Hospitality of natural law

Every six months or so, my father’s wife alerts me to the impending arrival of a large box. The box will contain artifacts from my past lives, carefully excavated from the second story of the house where I spent my youth. The house where my mother died. Rusted tins of bobby pins Broken jewelry Matchbooks Gift-with-purchase toiletry bags Coins cemented together with decades old chewing gum No item is too trivial for her trash cans, but most find their way into mine. So, when the baby book arr...

Under blue moon I saw you So soon you'll take me Up in your arms Too late to beg you or cancel it Though I know it must be the killing time Unwillingly mine Mid-80s, a rush of blur, summer, heat, desire. Someone else inhabited this body, yet a part of me now, resided there then. A foretelling in my bones. I remember returning to L.A. in Mike Dunnigan's van with Dave Hurricane. The Skoundrelz had played the Mabuhay Gardens in San Francisco. The license plate read, "R U EXP." It had been a toug...

Human nature trumps the human heart the broken hearted find no hope in humanity the human spirit is an oxymoron or at least impossible Possibility is a tease meant to appease losers like me