on the couch under a tree

the bay laurel between

the road and the creek

is a big umbrella with a broken rib

shading a faded tiger striped couch.

a man not quite old, 

but feeling the stack of his years

on the back of his neck, dozes.

a leaf-scented dream

floats him back

to the summers 

when he could live

in a story all afternoon.

White Busses

There are two kinds of white busses

on the streets of San Francisco,

one with smoked glass windows

and wifi connections,

the other with windows masked

by white mesh screens

hiding the orange clad

passengers inside.

One tools down the peninsula,

to the Googleplex and Meta.

The other bears to the right

at Altamont Pass onto Interstate 5

destined for San Ysidro

and the cold steel dividing line.

welcome

A hill tribe woman, Hmong I think,

in long black skirt

with blood red stitching

huddles against the building.

She has an electronic monitoring

bracelet strapped above her ankle.

She speaks insistently into a cell phone.

I don't recognize the language

but I hear the tears in her voice.

Her tiny daughter stands close,

holds her mother's hand

and looks up at her, twists

a strand of love-braided hair.

Another baby on her back

watches a delivery truck

pull up to the curb

as she vigorously sucks her thumb.

They cross the street

and turn down the sidewalk

towards the immigration office

and her tearful voice

is drowned beneath

the sound of a Harley

gunning up the hill

triggering car alarms.

Sinbad's

You don't see many under forties at Sinbad's.

It hasn't changed since the White House staff

were tootin' coke and sporting bushy sideburns

and bells were something that referred to pant legs

or folks in robes who chanted at the airport.

The food is mediocre

and the soundtrack still plays

a lot of Karen Carpenter.

(not that she was a bad singer)

The port of San Francisco is evicting them.

six weeks, six months, however long it takes,

they're done.

I’ve been there perhaps

a dozen times in a dozen years,

so I popped in for one last bourbon

on the rocks and a gaze through

the window behind the bar.

What a view....

the Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island,

the PanAm China Clipper terminal on Treasure Island,

container ships on their way to Oakland.

The Alameda ferry riders queue up right outside.

That's why Sinbad's has to go,

a new berth is needed for the ferries.

I used to drop in once in awhile,

if I had a long wait for the boat to Marin.

It got me into trouble once:

I was going to meet a former colleague

for a cocktail and a chat before

I caught the Larkspur ferry.

Just for an hour I thought.

But she brought along an interesting friend

visiting from somewhere up north,

a sexy sky diving instructor who'd

been drinking merlot since mid-afternoon.

Interesting, really interesting. And friendly....

She was wearing a Supergirl cape

and a pair of men's red underwear

on the outside of her jeans.

She needed something to eat something,

so we left to find some better fare

than Sinbad's had to offer.

As we crossed the Embarcadero

jammed with evening traffic,

Ms interesting, friendly skydiver

lifted up her shirt and flashed the commuters.

A lot of enthusiastic hoots and horns ensued

until my friend told her this isn't Mardi Gras

you aren't going to get any beads,

pull your shirt down.

We went for tapas and sangria

at this Spanish place out on Haight.

The skydiver said to my friend

"let's go to the lady's room and make out"

Then she put her hand on my back

and whispered in my ear,

“So what’s your story?”

She didn’t wait for whatever

stammering blather I attempted.

Then they said it was mandatory

that we sip some of the legendary

martinis at Zam Zam’s lounge.

I said I gotta go, if I don't leave right now

I’ll never make the last ferry. My former colleague said

Call your wife and tell her you've been kidnapped.

I said I don't have a cell phone.

So she says I’ll do it, what's your number

I’m gonna call her and tell her

that we insist on taking you dancing

and you can crash at my place.

So we did. I hadn't been out dancing

in years and it was fun. Some trendy place

called the Milk Bar where I felt a little

fifty-three-year-oldish out of place,

but the d.j. was mixing Motown on top of synth

and drum machine and it was hypnotic.

I was dancing with two women

and whatever price there would be to pay

tomorrow, I didn't care.

We danced until the club closed

and I slept on her couch in Oakland

and nothing untoward happened

....except I didn't make it home

until the next day.

But that was bad enough,

the cracks were growing wider,

and then I began to write.

casual encounters ads on the web

she calls herself home depot slut,

says she's waiting in the parking lot

on high street checking out

the day labor dudes for hire.

wayward hayward housewife, thirty eight,

whose husband is out of town

wants to have some hanky panky

in the afternoon, come and get it now.

financial district girl,

petite discrete

wants to go somewhere

in your car. says she won't

be wearing underwear.

forty five in palo alto wants

a brainy man attached

to a big thick one

and his own place to host

her primal yodels.

men mostly boast about

their anatomy and give

detailed instructions

like they're picking coffees

off the menu at starbucks.

is this bad behavior,

deserving scorn?

wayward hayward loves

her husband, but 

he's more into boys

and says he doesn't mind.

discrete petite is unattached

and just in town on business.

forty five in palo alto

is recently divorced, staying

at her sisters place,

so privacy's a bust.

far worse i think to profess undying love

long after it walked out the door

whispering sweet nothings

as sweet and empty as a diet coke.

putting on a puppet show of piety,

pretending, that the strings are still attached.

Kerouac Alley

They're sitting in Kerouac alley

between City Lights and Vesuvio's

passing a little sparkly glass pipe

from his grey scraggly beard-framed lips

to her dirty blond-framed weary

twenty-something pouty chapped ones.

Then he takes a melodeon

out of a canvas duffel bag

and plays a few random notes.

Their feet point at the brass quotations

embedded between the cobblestones:

“Poetry is the shadow

cast by our streetlight

imaginations" L. Ferlinghetti

Babs and Joe from Idaho

look at the Pipe-smoking pair

and wrinkle their noses, take turns

in front of the mural on the side

of the alley striking poses,

then pop into Vesuvio's,

where the ghosts live on the walls

and the spirits live in the bottles

ranked in rows behind the bar.

A black and white eight by ten photo

near the window dated years ago

shows a bored nude model

holding a half-furled umbrella

slung over her shoulder.

She gazes off camera,

like it's in between shots,

and she's thinking about something

that happened this morning

or waits for her later

after she collects the ten dollars

she'll get for posing.

The note at the bottom

of the photo says the session

was for someplace called

the Academy of Dirt.

Trout fishing with Lenin

The East Carson River

purls lime Jello clear

with whipped cream frosting

where it races

over the lava ledge

into the pool where

I know the cutthroats hide.

But they aren’t biting.

The aspens shuffle gold

then go dead still calm.

If I don't get a strike

in the next five minutes

I’m gonna find a grassy spot

and read another chapter

of ‘What is to be Done?'.

Pick over the bones

of a political pamphlet 

published in 1902.

I should have brought

a crime story or a thriller;

There’s no sex or death in Lenin.

I gave myself this task

so I can't blame anyone else

for the Bolshevik homework.

God. the Bible is much more engaging.

Wish these trout would bite,

save me from Vlad’s turgid prose.

One more cast. and and and

yes! feels like a big one!

Ah, shit. it's just a goddamned boot.

A work boot. Is that some kind

of message? That his assertion

that revolution requires

a vanguard party to lead

and not just economic struggle?

Or is it from some poor sinner

who drowned in the floods of June?

Must we choose between philosophies

or faith? Or are they just like

the worm impaled on my hook.

Which the trout are refusing.

Maybe they're the ones

who have the right idea.

Til now! I gotcha now,

what a beauty! yeah.....

You’re too beautiful to kill.

Go home sweet fish,

I haven’t got god nor party.

So let's just share this emerald water,

these quaking aspens and let these

clouds above be the only ones in mind.