Monday, November 18, 2019

Hello, bed.

It seems my back has other plans for me today. Friday’s small shoulderblade spasm decided to blossom on both sides. Yesterday, I could barely take a breath, driving was pure hell. Sleep helped, but it’s back with a vengeance. Hello, bed.

Between grant writing bits, I  taught two days of poetry classes in Oakland, for another grant, including reading and typing up kid poems.

I also helped my cousin move stuff out of the Nicasio house over the weekend—many, many stairs, many, many boxes.

Living feral, I slept in several strange beds. Met a new pussycat named Seamus Heaney. I also care-provided for a friend for two days, shopping, cooking, cleaned house, did massive loads of laundry, etc. I even managed to write a poem.

To make matters worse, I’m trying to avoid Advil as I took so much of it when my knee was injured. I worry about my kidneys. Can’t take Tylenol. Wine, not so much, but it’s a bit early, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s wine o’clock somewhere, but I haven’t had brekkie yet. At least this time I remembered to tape my knees, so they don’t hurt.

It was a very stressful and most busy week. Every single poet did not get heir work to me in a timely manner, causing all kinds of grant traffic jams. Not to mention headaches and eye strain. At one point I was wearing two glasses so I could read the fine print. But I got that blasted grant in on time. I did.

Now, to bed.

Sunday, November 17, 2019


We dutifully lined up for latte & sticky buns
at Yurien’s old Forest Knolls Garage.
Memories collided with time at warp speed.
Don would’ve snorted and scoffed—
a fucking boutique in his garage?
Axelgrease-laced beer was more his swill.
Where gas-pumps once stood,
islands of organic produce bloom
in ecstatic gentrification.

At the trailer court, someone lights up.
Some things never change.
The skunk odor takes me back.
Everyone’s looking rough around the edges,
Both young and old—there’s no escaping it.
The lattes obviously aren’t working.

Once, in front of Yurien’s Garage,
I got caught up in a swarm of bees,
my long hair became a net.
As I swept past the gas station sideways,
my red mare developed wings.
Don, with his Lucky Strikes
rolled up in a teeshirt cuff, ciggie in hand,
scratched his head as she danced sideways
right into the gas bay and out the other side
while the swarm, in an uproar,
fiercely protected their queen.
Like many, they were looking for new digs.
Such sweet dreams were on the move,
but Don’s greener pastures had turned to ash.